


Alter Ego

by helianskies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Character Death, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Drug Use, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Family Loss, Graphic Description, Hurt, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Modern Setting, Multi, Murder Mystery, Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 93,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27506842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helianskies/pseuds/helianskies
Summary: One death, two deaths, three deaths, four...How long will it take, and will they find more?The detectives in the Homicide department have their work cut out for them when a body appears. With no real leads or clues, it's only a matter of time before the numbers increase and the case starts to get out of hand. But with it, so do their lives and the city around them. No one - nothing - is safe. Not until the killer is caught.But at what cost will the denouement come?* * *started: nov. 12, 2020
Relationships: America/South Italy (Hetalia), Austria/Hungary (Hetalia), Denmark/Norway (Hetalia), Female Finland/Female Sweden (Hetalia), Netherlands/Portugal (Hetalia), Prussia/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 109
Kudos: 52





	1. Act I - 1

**Author's Note:**

> tw: descriptions of crime scene, blood, violence

**_Friday 13th March. 23:46pm._ **

Sleeping alone always felt a little strange. Gilbert supposed he had gotten used to it here and there, just as he had gotten used to falling asleep with someone there and waking up to cold sheets, or falling asleep on his own and waking up to cosy, domestic warmth. Gilbert had never thought that he'd come to like such a warmth when he was younger. Now, at twenty-nine years old, he relished in the moments when there were two of them.

He and Antonio had to do this odd dance of sleeping and waking often. Antonio was a paramedic—an Advanced Emergency Medical Technician, he had said with pride when he passed the qualification a year prior—and received a whole variety of shifts that could fall at any time of day. The things he saw in the span of a ten-hour shift were horrific. It was amazing how he was always so _cheerful._ But Gilbert worked for the Homicide Department in the city police force, so he supposed he didn't often see much better. What a thing to compare, _how many dead people did you see today?_ No thanks.

It was work, nonetheless, that had woken him. His phone buzzed on the bedside table with a name on the display that was growing more and more familiar, stirring him from his light sleep. The screen also told him it was still Friday. Once upon a time, he’d be out on a Friday night, not trying to get to sleep... Gilbert answered the call and was met by the stern, astute voice of his superior, his boss: good old Basch. 

"What time do you call this, boss?" Gilbert joked with a light heart as he got up from bed and prepared to throw back on the clothes he had recently discarded. 

Basch was much less amused, but Gilbert wasn't surprised. "I call it _midnight_. And you're needed," came the reply. That only meant one thing, and it was never good news for anyone—even if it was what Gilbert was paid to do. "A body has been found. Anna's here already. I've sent the location to your phone so I expect to see you promptly."

"Roger that," Gilbert said. "Is Kirkland coming, too?"

"I am yet to call him, but you're currently blocking the line, _Beilschmidt_."

"Ah."

The Prussian (only on his mother's side) apologised with only a small degree of sincerity and promptly hung up the call. It would be a bad idea to annoy Basch before he even got to the crime scene. He dreaded to think of the face he'd have slapped on him when he showed up. God, it wasn't even a new day and he was already done with people… 

As he stumbled around and tried to distinguish trouser from jacket from t-shirt (harder than it sounded, he soon found out), Gilbert wondered what the scene would actually look like and how serious this call-out was. He had only been part of Homicide for a few months, and the department itself was a notably small one, with only four permanent detectives and Anna, who worked in forensics, essentially having to babysit them all each day. Not that she seemed to mind. She was used to dealing with kids.

But, even so, they were lucky that the city didn’t often require them for big cases. At that moment in time, half of the permanent team was already busy in clearing up some of the cold cases, the unsolved killings that had been lying in dust-smothered boxes in the old archive room… That was the reason he had been called, he supposed. The other team was busy deciphering twenty-year-old reports, and he was being summoned from the cosy, warm confines of his bed.

No one had said this job was going to be easy.

When he eventually got to the car and turned it on, the screen inside lit up with an angry orange hue and screamed at him: _23:58pm. 13.03.2020._ Friday the 13th. What an unfortunate date. _Certainly unlucky for someone_ … Gilbert entered the address sent to him by Basch into the navigation system and wasted no time in setting off, quietly pulling out of the communal parking lot of his apartment complex and out onto the main road. 

The route took him through much of the city and across the bridge to the East Side, the portion of the city that lay along the coast and was characterised by a labyrinth of alleys and streets, countless clubs and bars, and the old Shipyard to the South. Gilbert had lived on the East Side for two and a half years, before he moved to the more affluent area on the West Side of the river—before he had put down a deposit with Antonio and they had moved in together.

That was two years ago. Where did the time go?

Empty roads meant that Gilbert was able to race across in less than ten minutes to the location given, silent siren lights flaring in the dark. It wasn’t obvious where the crime scene was at first. But then he rounded the corner off a main road and saw an ambulance, a patrol car and Basch’s car to one side, all pointed more or less to what must have been an alleyway. _A body dump? A mugging? Drug overdose?_ He wouldn’t have been called out for a drug overdose, would he? That wasn’t homicide. It was… homicide of the _self_ , technically? Eh, semantics.

Gilbert pulled up behind Basch’s four-by-four (small man, big car) and made sure to pocket his keys and phone before heading outside. _At least it isn’t raining_ , he told himself as he walked towards the yellow tape and hushed voices, _now that would_ really _suck_. With his hands in his jacket pockets, the young detective turned the corner to the alley and was instantly met by the Chief’s back. He seemed to be watching forensics and the paramedics. Gilbert wondered for a second if Antonio would be there, ready to take the body away…

“Glad you could join us,” Basch remarked, glancing over his shoulder. Gilbert stopped his personal search and met his gaze (did he ever not fucking frown? _Jesus_ ), acknowledging him with a nod. The Chief continued: “We’re looking at a vicious attack. Not something very common.”

“What kind of ‘vicious’?” Gilbert queried. “Gun crime? Knife crime?”

“Just take a look for yourself.” 

The tape was lifted up for Gilbert and the detective hesitated for all of two seconds before ducking underneath it and entering the cordoned-off crime scene. Two reserve paramedics stood off to the side. The forensic team were at work surveying the area, looking for any further clues that the body hadn't provided. He wasn’t sure what they’d find there besides the usual trash and litter and cigarette butts that were sprinkled all over the city. There was no obvious sign of a murder weapon. 

All that there was as he walked were splatterings of red on the ground leading to the scene, and the lone body, which Gilbert soon discovered had been propped up against the brick wall right by the dumpster—a discovery that swiftly reminded the young detective that he wasn’t quite yet used to some of the horrors that came with the territory. 

The body was covered in abundant lacerations, smears and rivers of dried blood, deeper wounds caused by God knew what. It was like someone had experimented various methods, or was just really, _very_ unhinged. Knowing someone could do this to another human being was of itself unsettling. The victim’s arm looked as though they’d been torn open, mauled by an animal. The legs had already been covered by forensics but he didn't doubt a similar butchery lay beneath. _Poor guy._ Really, the only good thing he saw was that the victim's face was more or less intact—identifiable.

“It is quite a scene, isn’t it?” a voice lamented from beside him.

Gilbert turned to be met with Anna, a beacon of light in such dark moments, he had come to learn, and a forensic genius he was happy to be working with. She was into her early thirties and a proud mother of two young boys, and it had always been weird to him to think that she went home to a normal family life after seeing these sorts of things. That she had children and a wife to see, to eat dinner with, to go out on weekends with, to make memories with—happy memories, that did not need to be tarnished by blood and gore and violence. 

Did her kids understand what she did for a living? 

“It’s been staged this way,” Anna—Annikki, as she had introduced herself back when he joined the Homicide team, and as he affectionately referred to her as—told the detective. “The victim wasn’t killed here.”

“So the body was dumped here and propped up against the wall by our killer?” he responded. It wasn't as unusual as he made it sound, in truth.

“That’s right," she nodded. "There's a faint blood trail leading from the roadside to right here. It wouldn't make sense for the victim to crawl here and not instead seek help, so…" Annikki paused, glanced aside to where Basch was stood making notes and the city lights blurred behind him. "The killer _had_ to have left him here on purpose."

“Sounds like you're right." _Wonderful_. "Can you estimate a time of death just yet?” Gilbert questioned, crouching down to try and get a closer look at the body, to see if there were any remnants of clues available to them that forensics hadn’t already picked up. “Jesus, what the fuck did he do wrong to get this in return…?” he mused all the while.

Annikki pulled the latex gloves from her hands as she spoke: “He died in the last twelve hours, for sure. Rigor mortis has already set in, and judging by how dry the blood is on his skin, it’s likely that it was this evening just past.” 

“That recently?”

"Fresh, just for us."

The detective sighed. "I wish there wasn't a need for a Homicide department sometimes, you know. I wish the world didn't have murderous bastards running around, doing this sort of thing…"

"Don't we all?" his colleague replied. "But even so, at least these victims have people like you to help them, even if they can't thank you."

"They have _us_ , Annikki," another voice jumped in, this time. "We're not a team without you."

Gilbert and Annikki acknowledged Arthur with a silent nod and a somber 'hello' respectively. Arthur Kirkland was Gilbert Beilschmidt's partner in the department, there for only four months in the city having transferred from the West Coast. Even so, he had a year's worth of experience in Homicide despite being a year younger than Gilbert, and was more steeled around such scenes than his German counterpart (an impressive trait, but Gilbert could at least boast about his neater workspace and superior self-care routine— _ha!_ ). 

Annikki, all the while, proceeded to fill Arthur in on what little he had missed regarding scene details and preliminary conclusions she could make.

As the information was absorbed, Gilbert returned his attention to the body in front of him. The victim seemed very well-built, undoubtedly quite strong and therefore presumably someone who would require a lot of effort to take out and do so much damage to, without there being a serious struggle. There was little else for him to conclude without a full post-mortem and autopsy. Oh, and the victim's identity! He gave the body a final scrutinising look-over and committed the scene to memory. Other than stains which Gilbert saw to be blood, he found nothing more of use.

But as he prepared to get up, his eyes landed on something much more curious on the side of the dumpster: a… _symbol_? Gilbert wasn't sure what it was. It looked like a circle filled with squiggly lines, like a child had drawn it in sheer boredom; only it seemed to have been painted onto the metal in _blood._ The victim's blood, most likely.

"Have your lot already photographed this?" Gilbert asked Annikki over his shoulder. 

"Ah, yes," she said, crouching down to join him at eye level with the strange marking. "We don't know what it is supposed to be. I've taken a sample to test the substance, but I believe it belongs to our victim."

"That's a given," Arthur chipped in, "but things like that are usually tags, right? A sign from a killer to the viewer—us, in this case." Gilbert looked up at him as his partner squinted through the dim lighting of the area to look at the marking in detail. "The question is, what does it mean?"

"We'll have to find out in the morning," Gilbert concluded. He got up and helped Annikki to do the same, before turning to Arthur and forming a triangle between the three of them. Like evil-plotting teens, or gossiping women. "Finish what you need to here and then release the body," he said to Annikki. "Arthur and I will begin investigating tomorrow. How long will it take for an autopsy?"

"You'll have it tomorrow, as in Saturday," the head forensic promised him. 

"Good, good. In which case…"

"We should work on finding our victim's identity, any next of kin, and anyone who saw him as of Wednesday evening," Arthur stated. "That's all we can hope to do tomorrow."

Gilbert nodded. "And so the game begins…"

* * *

"These early morning shifts are literally the _worst_. Do they know how hard it is to sleep during the day? In _our_ neighbourhood?"

"Management are too good for our neighbourhood. They wouldn’t know."

"Someone has to do it, though. And it's not like these shifts are ever _too_ busy," Antonio reasoned with his colleagues and closest friends (it was lucky they had been grouped into a shift team together; he thanked Fate frequently for such a kindness). "Besides, you should be used to it by now!"

" _I know_ ," Alfred whinged, "but that doesn't mean I have to like it! Man, I just miss having a normal sleeping routine! My body clock is utterly fu—”

“You’ve been doing this job for nearly three years! How do you think _we_ feel?” the brunette shot back with a raised brow. Antonio was twenty-nine. He’d been an EMT (well, an AEMT, these days) for seven years and he couldn’t remember the last time he had had an ordinary sleep schedule. He was lucky when he could have a lie-in on his days off! And as for the last member of their trio…

Abel gave a gruff hum and took a quiet sip of his coffee. “I can’t wait for retirement.”

The cheeky bastard was a year younger than Antonio was!

The three of them—Antonio, Abel and Alfred—had been good friends ever since they had been scheduled in on the same shift, back when Alfred was coming out of his probation and training phase. Since then, they had proven to be efficient enough for them to become regular teammates for the city’s central hospital and worked together in the ambulances. An AEMT, an EMT and an EMR. (There technically should only be two of them to an ambulance, but apparently Alfred's mild dyslexia warranted the extra help. Albeit none of them had ever _complained_ about such an arrangement).

In all, they were each other’s closest friends and cherished companions both in and out of the workplace. They knew each other well. They knew each other’s secrets and fears. They knew how to keep each other happy.

Which was why Alfred had supplied some Chinese takeaway to get them through their short shift break. Spring rolls, chow mein, prawn crackers. What more could you possibly want? Antonio made a mental note that the next time they had a night shift, it was his turn to supply some grub. _Maybe some Italian, I know Alfred likes this one place_ — 

The radio receiver in the cab crackled to life. "Call-out to Southbrook Street, West Side, young adult female has fallen and sustained a head injury and fracture; fast response unit has requested ambulance support," a voice told them. 

Abel, who had remained in the driver's seat, replied to the dispatch officer; "Unit 3A responding. ETA: nine minutes," as Antonio hastily sealed the tubs of food and tucked them away and Alfred got out of the front and hurried on around to the back of the ambulance to prep supplies. "It's a good job there's less traffic at night."

"You'll still drive too responsibly," the Spaniard remarked with a brief burst of laughter, Abel only shaking his head. He knew what he was thinking. "I'm not that bad!"

"I beg to differ."

The hatch slid open behind their heads and Alfred called to them through it: "Come on, what are we waiting for? An invitation?"

"It's Abel, what do you expect?" Antonio responded. Now both of them laughed together.

"I'm waiting for Alfred to put his seatbelt on so he doesn't go flying around the cabin."

A loud curse and a click came from the back. "Okay, okay, I'm in!" Alfred said. "Now go!"

And go, they did. From there, the remaining five hours of their shift went as smoothly as could be hoped. Antonio and Alfred were attending, while Abel remained in the front, and they were lucky in that they didn't pick up any immensely life-threatening cases—not bad for a Friday night. A fall, cardiac dysrhythmia, another fall ( _and a broken nose_ )... It made them grateful, such calmer nights. Tomorrow would be a different story. That was simply how the job went.

As they returned to the hospital with their final patient of the night (a young man who'd gotten too enthusiastic about a fight thanks to some mixed substances; he would probably need a good stomach pump) and Alfred wheeled him on towards the hands of the medical staff (saints), Antonio was relieved. Tired, aching, and relieved. He was looking forward to sleeping late into the morning, to going back home and slipping into bed while Gilbert was still there to keep him company… 

But mostly the sleeping into the late morning. Having a day off was a beautiful gift. Which reminded him:

"I was thinking," he said to Abel and Alfred as the trio came back together and headed for their designated staff room and lockers, "since we have a free day, do you guys want to come over for dinner?"

"Only if you're the one doing the cooking," Alfred replied. Whatever he was trying to suggest about anyone else's cooking was beyond the Spaniard entirely. "I don't mind bringing along some dessert? Or drinks?"

" _I'll_ bring the drinks," Abel said, however, laying a hand on Alfred's shoulder as he added: "The last time we let you, we might as well have been drinking piss."

" _Harsh_."

"But true," the tall blonde shrugged. He removed his hand after clapping the other's shoulder lightly, and he glanced at Antonio. "Dinner it is. Six o'clock?"

"Six o'clock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been working on this since our first lockdown in the UK, back in March. I have the whole thing planned in detail, the whole thing! I have no excuses not to eventually finish this one. I can do it. I can! And if I don't, I will be very, very disappointed in myself. Quitter :)
> 
> So I'm posting this before it gets deleted from my drafts for a forth time by the Archive and I chicken out.
> 
> Edit: I have since noted that some research notes I wrote back in March are missing. So be it, universe. You aren't gonna stop me from writing - not this time!
> 
> Edit 2 (18/11/20): I have now found those missing notes, so now the universe can REALLY suck it. I have written several chapters in advance so you won't be kept waiting too long for updates ;)


	2. Act I - 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detectives review the evidence and the facts. Anna gives them a hand. Basch gives them a talking to. The internet gives them a lead.

**_Saturday 14th March. 07:26am._ **

Domestic warmth. _It was back_. Gilbert had allowed himself to stay in bed for a bit longer than normal that morning at the expense of his morning run. It was simply too cosy, too tempting, and all because Antonio had come back at around five that morning (late, tch) which wouldn't have left Gilbert long at all to see him. He wasn't going to accept that. He wanted as much time with him as possible, while he could.

It was that harrowing thought that lingered with him often: _what if this is it?_ Working on murder cases, traffic collisions, and even cases where a death was caused completely accidentally and devastated everyone involved… it was all a frequent reminder on how life could be unpredictable, and could be cut short without warning. He hated that it had made him that little bit more responsible, in a way—his teenage self would certainly be unimpressed—but at the same time, he appreciated the little things more, now.

He appreciated each minute he got to spend with Antonio, or with his friend Mikkel, with Ludwig, and even with the people he saw much less often. (Which reminded him, he needed to call his brother that evening before he forgot; he hadn’t spoken to him in three days and his brotherly senses were tingling).

When the time came for Gilbert to actually get up and get ready for work (half-past seven, so he could eat something before leaving) he had tried to be careful. He had tried not to wake the other. But when you had someone holding onto you, _leaning_ on you, it wasn't exactly an easy task. So Gilbert got up—as did Antonio.

"Sorry, time for work," the German said as the other pried an eye open at the sudden movement and cool air. He let his partner steadily move to prop himself up on his arm, the throws of sleep still latching onto him, as Gilbert continued.

"That's okay," Antonio assured him with a light smile. Or maybe he was just that dazed still. "Have a good day, won't you?"

Gilbert gave a soft hum. _Thanks._ A small sound of appreciation for the well-wishes, even though he knew today would be a challenge.

"Oh, and—" Gilbert looked at Antonio as he got dressed, the other's brow creasing slightly as he thought. _Hard._ "Abel and Al are coming over for dinner tonight, if I remember correctly. Six-ish. Hopefully you can join us?"

He smiled at his sweet angel. "Of course I will," he promised. "Now go on, get back to sleep and rest up. I'll see you later."

"Fine… But no working too hard and stressing yourself out, okay?" mumbled Antonio as he happily settled back down, head on a pillow, eyelids drooping. Gilbert dared to get close again to temptation for a moment, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. Antonio didn’t even seem to register it. "Stress is bad for you, it'll make you look old, creepy…" _The tired ramblings of a madman._

"Don't worry about me," the German said to him, soft, easy; "I already look old. I've got enough white hairs to last me a lifetime." 

A smile snuck onto the other's face. "Makes you my silver fox."

"Which means you're the trophy wife?"

"The gold-digger, actually."

"Ouch! I'm officially writing you out of my will for that," Gilbert joked, before at last bidding him some sweet dreams and slipping out of the bedroom.

Domestic warmth. He was still trying to get used to it, being so unfamiliar with what this was like, what it was supposed to be. Films painted it one way, reality had neglected to show him what 'domestic bliss' was in a relationship, and his partner seemed just as clueless. But hey, he supposed they would simply have to discover it all together. That was all that mattered—being with the light of his life.

As for his _other_ partner, however, who greeted him in the office with little more than a gruff ' _hullo_ ' and dark circles appearing around his eyes, being a light was evidently not in his repertoire. Arthur, bless his poor soul, was efficient and ruthless and the world's most draining pessimist (' _realist_ '). Like a leech. He could just suck the joy out of a room! Which meant it was a good job he had Gilbert there to balance him out, as many people had told him when the blonde had joined the station a few months prior. Was Arthur really that bad? Gilbert didn’t see it, in all honesty. They got on pretty damn well in spite of their differences.

According to his watch, it was 8:34am when he got into their shared office in Homicide. Arthur had a tea to hand (always the same brown disposable cup, always the same brand of teabag; a man of habit and tradition) and had provided Gilbert with a coffee to help boost him as well. Because, in the blonde's own words:

"Today's going to be a shitfest, and we have to be awake for every damned second of it if we want to solve this new case."

"I know what you mean," Gilbert huffed as he sat down opposite the other, signing into the computer with one hand as he took a good sip of warm coffee to get him going. "We need to look around, see if we can get an ID on the victim. Fingers crossed that Annikki can get us some kind of report before noon."

“Fingers, and toes as well,” Arthur readily concurred.

A sigh passed his lips and he sat back in his seat, taking a quick swig of his cardboard tea. Arthur looked like he suffered from chronic malaise in these moments. Four months in the office and each day, without fail, he seemed fed up with something. Gilbert had challenged himself to find out why, but in light of the sudden cases, his attention was naturally diverted from his base curiosity regarding his colleague.

Arthur threw a loose gesture that didn’t go missed to a pile of paperwork to his right. Gilbert waited for him to explain.

“Missing persons reports. Got them from admin,” the Brit said in response to the stark silence. “I figured it would be a good place to start in case someone had reported the victim as missing, but I haven’t found any matches in the files from the past four weeks.”

“That’s fair. If he has family out here, they might not even know he’s gone missing just yet,” the other mused. 

If that were the case, then they’d hopefully hear something soon to point them in the right direction. He always hated it when the identity was unclear. The man’s pockets had turned out empty which meant no identification, no phone, no clues. But it also meant that the victim’s next of kin were yet to be informed—yet to be _found_. Arthur was right when he called it a ‘shitfest’. These situations were truly awful. 

All the while, Arthur was rocking on his chair, tapping the paper cup, thinking to himself. And then he said: “Anna can get the victim’s prints. He could already be known to us, and this could be just some messy ‘deal-gone-wrong’ situation.”

“It might be. Or it might _not_ be. You don’t do that to someone over drugs; you shoot them, you stab them,” Gilbert said, not entirely convinced. It simply didn’t add up. The victim, as far as the preliminary exams done at the scene, had been effectively slashed to death and had bled out due to several severe wounds. "Unless he was being made an example of, I suppose…"

Arthur hummed, pensive, perhaps in agreement. "I suppose."

A knock on the door was answered by the Brit, who called for whoever it was to come in. Both were pleasantly surprised to find it was Annikki, and instantly made the effort to straighten up and appear slightly more alert and attentive than they were. If she was fooled or not by the ruse, they would never know for sure.

"Good morning, detectives," she greeted (she was ounces more hospitable than Arthur had been, Jesus, _get that man some love so he knows how to handle being around people, just a little bit better!_ ). In her hand was a file, which she set down on the desk space between both men. 

Gilbert let Arthur take it first for reading. "What have you got for us, then?" he asked the pathologist. "Anything we couldn't already guess?"

"Not in the post-mortem," Anna replied. "It seems that on the surface, he died from his wounds, which I would put down to a short but sharp blade. A penknife, for example. Exsanguination," she explained to them both. Gilbert found it disturbing that so much damage could be done with something so small… "The autopsy was interesting, though."

That caught his interest; even Arthur looked up so fast from the file that it was remarkable he didn't get whiplash. "Why, what did you find?" the blonde asked. 

"It's on the page overleaf," Anna directed to him. "The victim had traces of morphine, as well as a drug called midazolam, in his system.”

“Midazolam?” Arthur repeated. “I mean, morphine—fair enough. But _midazolam..._?”

“Correct,” she nodded. “As you probably know, morphine is a form of opiate. An overdose on its own can be fatal, and it’s not all too uncommon as a cheaper alternative.”

“So could it have been self-administered?” Gilbert posed.

“The morphine, possibly. But the midazolam, I’m not so sure,” Annikki stated. “The thing is, midazolam is typically used as a pre-surgery drug, to induce drowsiness or even full unconsciousness with anesthetic. On its own, an overdose is not necessarily lethal, but when combined with an opiate, its toxicity increases _significantly…_ "

“So then this was potentially intentional?” the German detective returned, growing more confused by the second. “Even if the morphine was used recreationally, the midazolam could have been used by an assailant to incapacitate, right?” 

"That is true, yes," Anniki confirmed with a nod, "but there’s not really a way for us to be sure. I can’t even check for any obvious bruising that would suggest needle use, because the victim _is_ covered in a big collection of injuries that could have concealed it.” She gave a quiet sigh. She must have had a long night, she seemed so tired… Had she not slept? “Really, the cause of death is exsanguination and hypovolemia, from the lacerations, as well as the overdose. At the moment, it’s hard to say which got to him first…”

The detectives shared a glance. So maybe they were truly dealing with a killer. A _clever_ killer. Those truly were the worst kinds, because it implied they would have some idea of how to play the board, make them run in circles, _do this again_. Were they prepared for that? Could they handle another body? What if this was the beginning of something bigger—?

"I have another present for you both, by the way," the pathologist added, breaking Gilbert from his whirring thoughts. She pulled an evidence bag out from her pocket and let the item inside hang freely for them both to see it. Gilbert almost leapt from his seat to grab it, or even her. _There's no way…_ "One of the boys fished this out of the dumpster. We tried to give it a clean, so hopefully it works, but it will need charging."

Annikki set the bagged phone down in front of Gilbert for him to handle, before reclaiming her file from Arthur. She’d emailed them a digital copy each already should they need it, she explained to them, but the paper copy would be with her in the labs and then filed away. Of course, there was no dispute. With all that said and clarified, Anna smiled at them.

“I’m going to do some more research into midazolam, see where it could be more easily obtained, that sort of thing,” she told the detectives. “If there’s anything else you need me for in the meantime, just give me a call.”

“Alright, thanks Anna,” Arthur responded on both of their behalf.

As their lead pathologist excused herself, they saw her off with mutual smiles and nods and the usual pleasantries, before returning to the matter at hand. At least now they had some information. They just had to discern whether the drugs were involved in the crime in some way, and more pressingly—

“I’ll go find a charger for that phone?”

Gilbert looked up from the bagged mobile at his partner and seemed to blank for a minute as he tried to register the words that had been said. It was like there was a slight delay in his synapses. He blinked, erred, and then stopped Arthur in his tracks as the Brit got up and made for the door, muttering something about _storage,_ about _checking with admin._

“No need,” Gilbert assured him, having finally caught up. The detective left his seat and went over to one of the filing cabinets behind his own desk, opening the second-to-last drawer and retrieving a plastic container full of cables and wires. He brought it to his desk and set it down. “One thing I’ve learned is that you should always make life as easy for yourself as possible.”

Little time was wasted in finding what he needed. Cables had been colour-coded by the type of port: blue for lightning, green for micro-USB, red for Type C. The other few colours were saved for other devices that Gilbert had made sure to be prepared for, like cameras or laptops—Type-A’s, -B’s, minis… less common options for the devices they’d come across, but it was better to have some options rather than nothing.

All the same, Arthur seemed somewhat impressed by the development. It was rather amusing, really, come to think of it.

The blonde gave a light scoff. “And this whole time, you’re telling me I could have just nicked a phone charger from there rather than asking around the office for one?” he remarked. At least he was smiling, equally bemused. How some people got ‘bad vibes’ from Arthur, Gilbert just didn’t understand. “Glad to know you’ve got my back and that I can rely on you beyond _all_ reasonable doubt, partner.”

Gilbert snorted. “You’re more than welcome! Now—” He slipped the mobile from the evidence bag with due care, using a tissue to touch it as he plugged in the cable, before he plugged it in at the wall so it would begin to charge. As the screen lit up with a sign that it was charging just fine, he felt a great big wave of relief. “All we have to do is wait. We’ll get the phone unlocked, and from there, hopefully we can get a positive ID on our victim.”

“Best bet’s social media,” Arthur concurred, “or even emails. Fingers crossed we can get straight in without needing passwords.”

The other gave a quiet hum, a nod, a click of his tongue. “We’ll find out, soon enough.”

As if one cue, the door to the office opened again. Only, it wasn’t Anna coming back with any other (blessed, miraculous) gifts for them (such as, say, the victim’s driver’s license or passport). It was their superior officer, Basch. Gilbert assumed he was checking in on them—on progress—and was making sure they were actually working. Basch was the no-nonsense sort. Not a bad thing in theory, but in practice… it could make the work environment a little more tense than was needed when you were already working in such dire circumstances.

Basch closed the door behind himself. “I won’t bother you too long,” he told the detectives. “I’ll get straight to the point.”

His tone alone had Gilbert and Arthur standing up as straight as they could manage, spines and shoulders quietly aching out of discomfort, let alone whatever he had actually come to say. It couldn’t have been too different to the usual ‘brief briefs’ he dished out.

“Make quick work of this case, both of you—quick and quiet,” Basch said. “Keep the media out of it, and keep your heads screwed on. Understand?”

A brief brief indeed.

They both nodded in clean unison as Gilbert said: “Don’t worry, sir, we will. We’re working on identifying the victim right now through a phone found at the scene, and from there, we hope to track any kin and begin a thorough investigation into the murder.”

Basch didn’t move for a good five seconds, only breathing. And then he stepped one pace further into the office. “I would expect no less,” he remarked. “Don’t let the department down—either of you.”

And with that, he was off again, returning to the door, striding on through it, and letting it slam behind him. He sure knew how to come and go like a hurricane. A _small_ hurricane.

Gilbert let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, and he turned back to Arthur who met his gaze just as easily. “I guess that told us, huh?”

“I guess so,” Arthur begrudgingly concurred. The blonde gave a light sigh, loosening up again and slouching again ever so slightly. _Fair play to him_ , Gilbert thought to himself as the other sat back down at his desk, _he’s gotten used to this place pretty fast_. At least he didn’t let Basch (or anyone else, for that matter) get to him. “I’m going to see what I can find on that symbol thing,” he said as Gilbert came back to the present. “I’ll let you handle the phone.”

“Roger that,” the German nodded.

And handle the phone, he most certainly did.

Within half an hour, Gilbert was able to work out who the phone provider was so he could gain access to the mobile device Annikki had handed him. Another half an hour later, the phone was fully unlocked to him and he was able to start browsing through apps—social media, just as Arthur had suggested—in order to find the identity of the victim. Half a minute after opening Facebook—the place that made the most sense to start—he found himself logged in to the victim’s profile, with friends, contact details, identifying photos, and most importantly—

“I have his name,” Gilbert said, perhaps a bit louder than necessary (but he was thrilled, relieved—he was so incredibly glad). Arthur looked over the desks at him and made a gesture, wide-eyed, for him to spill: “He seems to be called Sadiq Adnan, living local to the area.”

“Well I’ll be damned… Does it give you much else?” Arthur asked him. “Some people fill out their profiles with much more information than necessary. Work, relationships, old schools, even the _books_ _they’ve read_ , for Christ’s sake…”

Gilbert raised a brow at that. “Sounds like someone has a thing against Facebook. And people who read.”

“ _Hardly_ ,” the other replied, rolling his eyes. He went back to his computer and continued typing whatever it was he had been doing beforehand. Though, he wasn’t quite finished: “I just don’t see why people feel the need to advertise that they read ‘Catcher in the Rye’ back in 2009 and that, based on said list, nothing else since.”

“Have _you_ read ‘Catcher in the Rye’?”

“God, no. Didn’t sound like my cup of tea.”

“Never judge a book by its cover,” Gilbert reminded him.

“I don’t,” Arthur replied with an easy smile, eyes briefly flicking back at his partner; “I judge it by the blurb.” And then his face fell more neutral and he went back to typing. “Anywho, I don’t think that’s what we ought to be focusing on, Gilbert. What does the profile tell you that’s _useful_?”

The German tapped on Mr. Adnan’s profile and biography. “Well,” he said, “looks like he hasn’t filled out too much. Though…”

The fact that he trailed off in such a way and seemed to be staring at the phone in a certain way caught Arthur’s immediate attention. “What? What is it?”

“Looks like he read ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ back in 2012,” Gilbert told him with a smug grin.

“ _Beilschmidt._ ”

“Okay, okay! Keep your knickers on, as you say,” Gilbert pressed on, doing his best not to laugh too obviously (or too loudly) behind his hand. At least he knew Arthur didn’t entirely dislike his sense of humour; if he did, he would have asked for a transfer back in November when he had moved to the city. Ah… The detective returned to the Facebook page and continued to scroll. “From what I can see, he worked in security, or something like that. Other than that, there’s little to go on other than his registered email address and phone number.”

Arthur nodded slowly, eyes still trained on his computer. “Then I’d check the private messages from the account, and just on the phone in general,” he suggested. “We should be able to find family or friends easier that way.”

“Wayyy ahead of you there, Artie. The last message sent from his account was from yesterday afternoon, to someone called… Honda?”

Now Arthur was the one raising brows. “Like… the car manufacturer…?”

“No idea, lemme just—” Gilbert opened up the profile of the person who had received the message, and found the account was private. What he _could_ see, however, was that: “I’m so stupid.”

“I could have told you that, mate.”

“Haha, but _nooo_ , I don’t mean like that, I mean— ‘Honda’, the name. I know who it is,” Gilbert explained to Arthur. “He’s a doctor, works in a private surgery in the North-West suburbs of the city.”

“A doctor?” Arthur repeated. He stopped typing again and made a gesture for the phone, which Gilbert handed over to him. He spent a few seconds presumably looking at the locked profile. “What were the messages about?”

“Seemed like Adnan was trying to arrange an appointment for tomorrow,” Gilbert replied.

Talk about short notice—if he ever tried to book an appointment he usually had to wait at least a week! That’s why he gave up. After all, he lived with a paramedic—talk about easy-access healthcare!

Also, what kind of doctor’s practice was open on a _Sunday_?

“I think Mr. Honda managed to squeeze him in in the morning.”

“Then perhaps we should make use of the appointment,” Arthur said as he set the phone back down in front of Gilbert. “No text messages were sent after this one online. It seems that this doctor could very well be the last person Sadiq spoke to before his murder.”

“Then we _definitely_ need to make use of that appointment. What time was it?”

“10am.”

“Perfect. It’s a date, Kirkie."

'Kirkie' stifled a groan.


	3. Act I - 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does everyone get up to after work?   
> Let's take a little look - and meet a couple new characters, too...

**_Saturday 14t_** ** _h_ ** **_March. 17:38pm._ **

After a long day (and all the hours _between_ midnight and the time her shift _technically_ started at eight where she had been working in the labs regardless of the limited overtime pay), Anna was glad to be able to go home. She desperately needed sleep. Basch had suggested she leave earlier, once the post-mortem and autopsy work had been done by her and her small team, but Anna had turned down the offer. There was work to be done. Going home would have only postponed it, and when there was a fresh murder that needed solving…

As soon as she opened the front door, small feet came running at her from the adjacent living room. Anna was trapped in a hug by young, innocent arms before she could even properly step inside.

“Okay, okay! Good evening to you, too!” she said with a soft laugh. They were such balls of energy, such bundles of joy and cheer. Annikki managed to crouch down to the same level as her two boys, and put her arms firmly around them. On a normal day, she missed them; today was, in some ways, as normal as they came. “How are my little angels?”

“Being little demons,” came the welcome voice of her partner. Annikki looked up and met Linnea’s gaze, her tired eyes.

“Aw, they aren’t, are they?” she replied, pulling away from the boys. They were six and five, and the somewhat guilty look—on Peter’s face at least—was the only answer she needed. “That’s a shame. Do you know why?” Neither boy spoke. “Because little demons don’t get to eat pudding after dinner!”

That seemed to horrify them enough. Anna stood back up as the boys hurried to apologise to Linnea, before running back off into the house, and Anna was relieved that she could stand, breathe, and have a tranquil moment with her significant other.

“Have you had a good day?” she asked Linnea, entering the house (at last) and taking off her jacket and her shoulder bag.

Linnea—always a woman of many words—nodded. And then asked: “Have you?”

Anna nodded in turn. “It’s been okay. Just a new case,” she said, not wanting to go into all of the gory, long, confusing details. Not yet, at least. “You know how it is, it’s all part of the job description.”

The other gave a quiet, pensive hum, but it seemed she understood. Linnea always did. It was part of the reason that Anna had married her back ten years ago, not too long after she had graduated from university. Linnea always seemed to understand her, her expressions, the whispers of hints as to how she was feeling that Anna didn’t even realise she was giving off. For as intimidating as she had once thought the tall Swede to be, it was as clear now as it was back on their wedding day: Linnea was the perfect woman for her.

* * *

**_17:39pm._ **

Alfred opened the door to what he would easily label his favourite Italian trattoria, a humble establishment positioned between a hairdresser’s and a wine shop, where he frequently went in order to grab a coffee (or a sweeter treat) before work. If anyone asked why there _specifically_ , he would simply say that it was good to support local businesses as opposed to the bigger corporate brands (ignoring the fact that he also enjoyed a cheeky corporate cheeseburger every now and then).

This trattoria, he had come to learn over the past year, was owned by an Italian family—a pair of siblings. Though, he had only ever properly met the one, who just so happened to be the very Italian up behind the counter.

“Hey Lovi,” he greeted with a big smile, hands shoved in pockets as he sauntered up to the counter. “How ya doin’?”

“I was doing better before I saw your ugly mug walk through the door,” the Italian replied without missing a beat. Yet, as harsh as the words would have been to anyone passing, Alfred knew they weren’t malicious in any way. Lovino was just much more efficient at communicating when it involved insults and expletives, and he found it kind of entertaining, in all honesty. “What about you? Are you still busy regretting your life decisions?”

Alfred could only laugh to himself as he leaned on the countertop, arms folded. “I save that sorta thing for my days off,” he remarked. Lovino acknowledged it with the ghost of a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. “Not why I’m here this evening though, amigo—”

“Ami _-co,_ ” Lovino corrected under his breath.

“—I’m afraid I can’t really stop and chat,” Alfred reeled on, regardless. “I’ve got a dinner party to get to in like fifteen minutes, so this really is just a fly-in visit.”

At that, Lovino stopped whatever he was doing at the till, took a step to the side, and leaned on the counter directly opposite the American. His face was so serious, Alfred almost wondered if he’d done or said something wrong that was about to warrant a telling-off (it wouldn’t have been the first time). But, where part of him had expected to be quietly ripped into in front of the customers that had filled up the small restaurant, Alfred was instead met by a very simple question: “What can I do for you, Al?”

Relieved that he hadn’t broken out into an obvious sweat, Alfred stood up straight and laughed off his nerves. “Well, uh, I kinda said I’d bring dessert along…”

“Uhuh…?”

“But I really suck at making desserts.”

“How brave of you to admit it aloud,” Lovino practically snorted, a somewhat wicked grin lighting up on his darker Mediterranean features. “Is that why you’re here? You need me to save you and rescue your pudding, Mr. Hero?”

“My…” Alfred blinked. “ _Pudding_?” Whether it was meant to be a euphemism of some sort or not, he wasn’t sure. It turned him red on the inside (or so he hoped, _only_ on the inside). “Well, I, uh… Tiramisu?”

Lovino, who seemed oblivious all the while to Alfred’s little moment, gave a semi-melodic hum and pushed up off the counter. “I can get you some tiramisu if that’s what you want. I made some fresh this morning,” he remarked. “How many portions do you need?”

Good question. Really, really good question. “Four?” Alfred said, not entirely sure himself. He knew it was himself, Abel and Antonio, and maybe even Gilbert as well. But Lovino’s tiramisu was so _good,_ what if people wanted seconds? “Make it five. Or even six.”

“How about I just give you a full dish?” the Italian compromised.

“A full dish?”

“As long as you can get it back to me tomorrow, it would be easier for all of us, right?”

“Right, uh, yeah! Yeah,” Alfred said, his smile quickly returning, “yeah, that would be really awesome if you could do that for me!”

Satisfied, Lovino went off into the kitchen in search of the tiramisu, and promptly returned with a cling-film covered glass dish filled to the brim. It was more like seven or eight portions, from what Alfred could tell. A greedier version of himself would have snuck home, taken a third out for himself—maybe even half—and then taken the rest to Antonio’s on a plate…

But Alfred wasn’t greedy. Not at all. Not over some creamy, strong, _sweet_ tiramisu prepared by his favourite Italian.

Trattoria.

His favourite Italian _trattoria,_ aha.

Lovino set the dish down for Alfred to take.

“How much do I owe you?” the blonde asked.

“Call it ten.”

Alfred looked up so fast from the dish he would’ve sworn he nearly got whiplash. “ _Ten_?” he repeated. “I might as well be robbing you for that price! This dish alone would probably get you—”

“I can charge you full price if you _want_ me to,” Lovino assured him with an arched brow and crossed arms. “Or, you can shut up, say thank you, and enjoy your evening.”

Feeling guilty all the same, he thanked the other— _really, truly,_ _thank you_ —and paid him fifteen (because ten was too low, whether it was a friend’s rate or not, and he didn’t want to be the bad guy who took the lowest, stingiest deal). With the dish in hand and the smile holding on for dear life on his face, Alfred promised to return tomorrow evening to drop off the dish, waving at the Italian as he headed back towards the entrance.

Lovino only told him to watch where he was walking before he _dropped_ it all.

* * *

**_17:47pm._ **

Abel was just locking the front door to his apartment when his phone started buzzing in his pocket. It was typical, right when he was in the middle of— No, no, he took a breath and shut the door properly. There was no need to risk a break-in over a phone call.

Once he was satisfied that he locked the door properly, the Dutchman went on his way down towards the communal car park where his own car was waiting for him. It would be easier to drive, he had figured, and it would certainly stop him from drinking too much before he had to go back to work tomorrow.

He answered the phone quite possibly within a second of the ringing stopping. He hadn’t bothered to check the caller ID. There were realistically only four people it could have been: Antonio, Alfred, Emmeline, or—

“Ah, Abel, you _are_ alive!”

Henrique. Of course it was.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked as he went down the external stairs to the ground floor. “It’s not like you have already tried to contact me today. You would have no reason to think I was anything _but_ alive.”

“And yet, you took a whole seventeen seconds to answer the phone. I think that’s a new record,” Henrique remarked, no doubt grinning like an idiot on the other end of the line. For someone who made a point of being ‘ _nothing like my brother!_ ’ sometimes, Abel felt they resembled each other much more than either cared to notice. And not just physically. “It’s just a quickie—”

“It’s _always_ just a ‘quickie’ with you, Hen.”

That shut the other up for all of… three seconds.

“Funny joke,” he replied, his smile likely gone—at least for a short while. “I only say ‘funny’ because that’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about.” _Oh God forbid, not this evening. Not right now_. “I was wondering when you’re next free.”

“Not today, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.”

“No, not today, I already know you can’t.”

“Is that so?”

“I spoke to Antonio earlier on, actually, and he said you’re going over for dinner,” Henrique explained to him. Not that it really needed explaining. Who else would Henrique have heard it from? _Idiot_. “I was slightly offended that I wasn’t invited along, but I get it—he’s younger, he’s funnier, he’s—”

“He’s not you,” Abel finished for him.

As much as he could appreciate Antonio as a friend, Henrique had an entirely different energy about him. He was calmer, easier to talk to about even the most mundane and ordinary of things, he was someone who understood the value of just sitting down and relaxing and enjoying _silence_. Henrique was many things that Antonio was not (most vitally, Abel’s on-off boyfriend) and he was sure Gilbert would have said the same in reverse ( _also_ because _Henrique_ was not _Gilbert’s_ boyfriend, but for other very different reasons as well). In some ways, Abel valued both of them for different things.

His best friend, and his best friend’s brother. If that wasn’t one massive cliché…

“ _Awww_ ,” Henrique fawned into Abel’s ear much louder than necessary, causing the blonde to wince slightly and hold the phone away from his face, “well aren’t you just so romantic?”

“The romantic to your dramatic. Sure,” Abel responded. He even rolled his eyes. From his pocket, he fished out his keys and unlocked his car, getting into it as the conversation rolled on. “I wasn’t trying to be romantic, though. I’m sure you know that. Plus, Antonio does already have a boyfriend, need I remind you."

“No, don't _ever_ remind me…" _Touchy, touchy. Big brothers and boyfriends: the battle of the protectors._ "But of course I know,” the other said, a single snort of laughter escaping him. “Romantic really isn't your style, is it? I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

He could only give a quiet grunt of semi-acknowledgement; he acknowledged the comment, but whether he believed it was a different matter.

“Anyway, I was asking you when you’re next free to come and see me…?”

Abel knew better than to ignore him, brush him off, or lie.

* * *

**_18:06pm._ **

Gilbert was finally done with the day. He and Arthur had done their best to piece together what they could about the mysterious Sadiq Adnan—who his friends were, who may have seen him most recently, where his family was—but it had taken the best part of three hours. By the time they had finished, all they had established was that his family lived back in Turkey, that he had run away as a young adult no longer satisfied with life there, and that he had started anew in the States. (Arthur had tried to conduct the call to the family to make them aware of the situation, but had been unable to get through—he would try again tomorrow).

Other than that, their best bet was to visit the doctor tomorrow. Facebook had provided most of their clues. Other forms of social media, he either didn’t have or wasn’t logged into any longer on his phone. His email inboxes had been rammed with spam, or the odd email from the security agency he appeared to work for. And as for his text messages, they really were limited to what seemed to be a small circle of friends and the occasional ‘check-in’ text that was sent back to Turkey.

Otherwise, Sadiq Adnan seemed to be an enigma. And an enigma he would stay, at least until tomorrow morning.

Opening the front door, Gilbert was relieved to be back home, and he could already smell the food. _Blessed_ were the days when Antonio cooked. Only, where Gilbert had spent much of the afternoon dreaming of a quiet evening, a cold beer, maybe even a good film to counter the gravity of the day’s events, he was instead met with laughter coming from the kitchen-dining area, along with the reminder that: they had guests this evening. 

How did he forget? _How could he forget?_ He’d only been told that morning. He had specifically said, in response to Antonio sharing the hope that Gilbert would be able to join them that morning, in bed, half-asleep, _‘of course I will!’_. Of course he’d join them! 

Well, at least he had come home. He was a few minutes late, but he hoped that would be forgiven. Some people went out and never got to come home at all…

A head peeked around the corner of the short hallway. Gilbert was greeted by a big smile, and, before any words could be exchanged, Antonio was already holding out a beer for him. _The perfect match:_ _me and beer._ Gilbert hung his jacket up on a hook by the front door and slipped his shoes off, more than ready for a drink. Or two.

“Come on,” the brunette said, “I think you need it after today.”

_Jeez, someone got good at reading minds!_

“Yes, yes I _do_ ,” Gilbert confirmed as he made a bee-line for the bottle being held out for him, taking it in his hand and relishing in how _cold_ it was. Freshly-pulled from the fridge, perhaps? Either way, he decided to greet Antonio properly with a hand on the shoulder and a quick peck on the cheek (he was still getting used to bigger acts of affection around other people). “Sorry I’m a bit late, it’s been… long.”

“That’s alright, I understand,” Antonio assured him. He shifted his weight onto the other foot and made a loose gesture for Gilbert to make his way on through to the dining area. As he moved, he said: “We can talk about it later on if you like, if you need to get some weight off your chest—?"

“It’s fine, don't worry—that’s what the beer and good company is for,” Gilbert replied, perhaps a little too quick. “There’s no better way to destress, that’s for sure!”

Antonio seemed… _partly_ convinced, but if he had any major doubts, he chose not to voice them. Instead, they continued on to join that ‘good company’. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell Antonio about everything that had happened—about the body, the scene, the day spent investigating roads that led to dead-ends. He did. Speaking about it was always good, and it was something both of them tried to do—Gilbert about his murders, bodies and killers, and Antonio about his deaths, his near-losses, his traumas. Between the both of them, speaking was the best thing they could do. It helped them both. The problem was, of course, tonight they had company, and even though that company shared in similar horrors, Gilbert knew that no one wanted to talk about that sort of thing when they were meant to be having a good time.

So, they left it.

The dinner party itself went by in a hops-flavoured blur. Antonio had gone all out with the food, making it warm and healthy and irresistibly delicious, and when it was followed by a tiramisu that Alfred had produced (though, whether he had been the one to make it was a mystery Gilbert would have to solve another day), all four of them around the table were satisfied. 

Antonio’s closest friends. Alfred and Abel. _The A-Team._ Gilbert knew Alfred fairly well—he appreciated his energy, the jokes he threw over the table, the youth he exuded (though, as the youngest at the table with his twenty-five years, young was exactly what he was).

Abel, on the other hand, was… a little different. He didn’t dislike the man, but Gilbert was always a bit more wary around him purely for the fact that Abel was very close to Henrique and _that man_ , he really didn’t seem to like Gilbert. Why? He didn’t know! He honestly didn’t know. But you what? _Whatever._ Gilbert wasn’t one to let it ruin the mood, so he laughed with Abel as eagerly as he laughed with Alfred. If Antonio was happy to have them there, then Gilbert had no reason to worry.

By the time the food had been eaten, the jokes had been shared, and everyone seemed to be tiring, it was nearing ten o’clock. Abel ended up taking Alfred home, since he’d driven; they would have stayed much longer but with an early start (their shift started at five the coming morning) they really needed to go and get some sleep before they went around saving lives ( _such heroes_ ), and Gilbert could do with a decent night’s rest as well, in all fairness.

Once the front door had been closed on their guests and the pair were left alone, the first thing they agreed on unanimously: “We’ll clean up tomorrow.” Antonio had been the one to say it. Gilbert had been the one to breathe his relief.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going straight to bed,” the German remarked as he locked the apartment door at the latch. He turned to Antonio, who was leaning against the wall. He seemed to be on the same page, judging by the drowsy smile on his face—but maybe that was just the beer, so, to be sure he had to ask: “You all good?”

Antonio gave a nod. “Yeah, I’m good. And you?”

“I’m good, too.”

“Good,” his partner replied. “In which case, you go and get cosy. I’m going to have a quick shower—I smell of cooking and beer, and _no one_ wants to be met with that in the morning.”

Gilbert snorted. “ _Well_ …”

“You do _not_. Now go on, go,” Antonio insisted. He pushed off the wall and made a clear, firm signal for Gilbert to get a move on (he wasn’t going to refuse), following after him. “I’ll be five minutes. Just don’t fall asleep without me, okay?”

“Do you really think I can fall asleep in five minutes?”

“You’ve done it in _one_ before!”

“Yeah, well, so have you!”

“That was after a fourteen-hour shift, and that’s different,” Antonio reiterated. And then he paused, breathed, and a small pout formed on his lips. Sometimes, he could be such a child… “Besides,” he then went on, “I come back too often to you already sleeping. We have to make the most of nights we can actually fall asleep together like a normal couple.”

“We _are_ a normal couple, aren’t we?”

“Who, you and me?” the Spaniard laughed. Gilbert couldn’t help but smile with him. “I’m not so sure about us being ‘normal’. But you know what I _do_ know?”

The detective hummed his uncertainty. “What?”

“I wouldn’t change it. _Us._ I love us, just as we are.”

It was safe to say that those five minutes that Gilbert had to wait for Antonio passed agonisingly slow. He was looking forward to having the other there, next to him, warm, so he could just hold him and appreciate him and prove to him that he loved them just as they were, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw yeah, filler chapters. Lovely. Now you've met some more of the cast, and you get a raste of who and what may be to come ;)
> 
> Also, watch me start indulging in my pruspa addiction whenever and wherever I can, hehe. I am obsessed.
> 
> Side note: I've almost finished all of Act I which is 10 chapters long. I'm genuinely impressed with myself! Maybe I'll actually be able to finish this story in good time (she says, jinxing it)...


	4. Act I - 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert and Arthur follow up on their lead. Elsewhere in the city, life continues with its own ups and downs.

**_Sunday 15th March. 09:56am._ **

Sundays were always quiet days at the surgery. They stayed open until early afternoon, accommodating the patients who required the extra or emergency attention by giving them the exclusive slots, but in general they were quiet, relaxed days. Only today, Kiku knew something was amiss. Something rather out of the ordinary was happening.

He’d received a call about an hour before from someone claiming to be a detective. Apparently they had to speak to him about something and would be stopping by at ten o’clock, but they didn’t want to discuss it over the phone because it was of a sensitive nature. Kiku had never heard something so ominous. But he had accepted, in spite of the fact he had a scheduled appointment at that time—he was sure Sadiq would understand, and that the police wouldn’t take too long.

Come to think of it, he found it odd that Sadiq wasn’t already there in the waiting area. The man made a habit of being early (by no more than five minutes, mind you) and would always take the seat by the window. Yet, as Kiku was going through files behind the reception desk (he had been doing so for the past ten minutes already), the seat remained empty. 

He wasn't left much time to dwell on his missing patient. At that moment, the door into the surgery opened and in walked two unfamiliar faces. Though, if he had to make a guess based on their general appearance, the confidence they had with each stride, the time on the wall clock…

"Dr. Honda?" the taller one said, as though to make sure it was indeed him. Kiku closed the cabinet drawer and was polite enough to fully turn to face the gentlemen. From his jacket pocket, the man retrieved what turned out to be his ID and badge. "I am Detective Inspector Beilschmidt, and this is my partner, DI Kirkland."

The other officer gave a semi-awkward nod, eyes drifting briefly to his 'partner' and then back at Kiku. The doctor was intrigued.

"How can I help you?" he asked them. "It is not often we have the police come by…"

"We have some news regarding one of your patients. It seemed more appropriate to tell you in person than on the phone, however, which I hope you don’t mind.”

At that, they had his undivided attention. Something had happened to someone he knew. A patient. And if the police were involved, then it could not have been anything good. “That’s— That’s fine,” he stumbled, trying to prepare himself for what was to come. “Can I ask who…?”

The taller one—Beilschmidt—gave a nod and his head sank briefly to the notepad in his hand, before he looked back to the doctor and said: “Sadiq Adnan. I understand he was a patient of yours, but also perhaps a friend?”

The question went unanswered. That was why they had come by now, at ten o’clock, when Sadiq was supposed to be sat in that chair by the window with his usual indifferent, relaxed demeanour, his aloofness, his calm. They were here because Sadiq wasn’t. Beilschmidt used the past tense. _He was a patient of yours._ Was. _Was_. Not _is_ , but _was_.

“Is he alright?” Kiku found himself asking in spite of it. Based on what the man did for work, it would be unsurprising if Sadiq had gotten himself hurt in some way. The amount of times he had warned him to be more careful… “What happened to him? Is he in hospital…?”

“It’s more serious than that, I’m sorry to say,” replied the other detective. Kirkland, was it? Kiku didn’t know, he couldn’t remember, he was too hung up on those words: _more_ _serious_. “We received a call out late Friday night. Sadly, it was to a body that had been found, which we later identified to be Mr. Adnan.”

And just like that, the ground beneath his feet seemed to liquidate. Kiku held onto the desk in front of him for fear that he would fall. In his ears he could hear his heartbeat, and in his heart, he felt a dull ache. Sadiq may not have been one of his closest friends, but he knew him well enough, he always appreciated his odd humour, he enjoyed the occasional moments in which they’d see each other outside of the confines of the surgery. He was a good man.

“We’re truly sorry, but we did have some questions for you regarding Mr. Adnan that, as his doctor and an acquaintance, we feel you could help us with,” Detective Beilschmidt remarked. His apology sounded sincere enough, he seemed empathetic, he seemed patient… “If you are not up for it right now, we are happy to wait. I understand this is a lot to take in.”

Kiku found it in himself to take a deep breath. “No, I can… I can help,” he told them. “If we could just… go into my office, for some privacy.”

“Of course,” the detective obliged, and he gestured for Kiku to go ahead and lead the way, so he did.

The three of them walked out of reception and along an adjacent corridor to Kiku’s office. On the way they passed Yao, who seemed to be in as foul a mood as ever, but Kiku paid him no mind. His mind was too busy buzzing, whirring, screaming. Yao could handle himself. Kiku was busy trying to handle himself, too.

The doctor entered his room and held open the door for the detectives. They followed him through, he invited them to sit down, and he went to his own chair behind his desk. 

At least now he didn't have to rely on his own legs to keep him upright.

"We truly are sorry that our visit is of this nature," the blonde detective reiterated on both of their behalves as everyone seemed to settle into a slightly more safe environment (no prying eyes, no listening ears). "You have our sincerest condolences, once again." Kiku could only nod, resigned. "Are you sure you are happy to talk to us right now?"

"Better to do it now than to think about it for an extra day or two," came the reply. It made more sense to him from an objective point of view. Why prolong the initial pain? If they left now he'd spend his time worrying more, stressing more, pitying more… "Tell me what you need," he said to them. "I will help you where I can."

Detective Beilschmidt nodded slowly. "Alright, if you're sure you're up for it… The most important question we have to ask is—" He paused, breath momentarily hitched. Kiku tried to steel himself. "Do you know of anyone who may have wanted to harm Mr. Adnan in any way? Or anyone that didn't like him?"

The doctor pulled a face, briefly, a fleeting expression not too dissimilar to a grimace. He didn't normally make such faces. "Sadiq has strong opinions. He is— _Was_ stubborn," he remarked, barely catching himself. “He, uh… He was never afraid to say what he thought. If people hated him for it, it would not be a surprise, but he never intentionally started a fight. He did not enjoy conflict, not that he would admit it.”

“So he never mentioned anyone specifically? No one he _did_ have a fight with that you know of?”

“No one he knows, or that I know of,” Kiku responded, shaking his head. He wished he could be more helpful. He felt… Well… He felt _many_ things, in all honesty. “He worked in security, and did night shifts outside some of the clubs on the East Side. I’m sure he made many enemies amongst drunk customers…”

It was a fair point that the detectives seemed to accept. Kiku eyed the taller of the two warily as he made some notes in a notepad (legal note style; black leather-bound; standard), most likely jotting down what he had said.

The doctor breathed out and his lungs felt somehow heavier in his chest. The dull ache had returned, and he wondered for a moment if it was nausea he was feeling in his stomach or if he had just forgotten to eat breakfast again. He would do that, sometimes. Yao normally reminded him to eat when he walked into the surgery. Had Yao reminded him yet? Had Yao even said ‘good morning’ to him yet? Had _he_ even said ‘good morning’ to _Yao_ yet? The whole day… The whole day seemed warped, off, _wrong_.

“We have another question for you, if you don’t mind? It relates more to your relationship with him as a doctor,” Beilschmidt said. The nausea ebbed, for now. 

“I suppose doctor-patient confidentiality has gone out of the window, as they say,” Kiku mumbled, but he was prepared to oblige. If it could help and give him a sense of use then so be it. “What do you need to know?”

Kirkland spoke up next (had they rehearsed a script, had they discussed who would ask what?): “Would you know if Mr. Adnan had any reasons to be taking opiates, or—” He stopped to look at his own notepad, flicking back a page. Cliché. “Or benzodiazepines?” he managed to finish, sounding unconfident in his pronunciation (but it was close enough to be understood). 

“No,” was the simple answer that Kiku gave them.

“No?”

“No,” he repeated, “because Sadiq is not that sort of person. He refuses to even take a paracetamol for a headache. Opiates like morphine, heroin… He just isn’t that sort of person. He didn’t even _smoke_. So whatever you think he may have taken, I promise you, he didn’t. He’s one of the cleanest people I know.” Kiku looked at them both, doing his best to not glare in defence of his ‘acquaintance’.

His _friend._

His _dead_ friend…

The nausea trickled back in. 

“We understand,” Kirkland assured him all the while. His tone was soft, understanding. “I apologise, we weren’t trying to imply anything like that. We just wanted to be sure from a medical point of view.”

The doctor gave a reluctant and meek nod. _Fine._ He would accept the apology and put it behind him, at least for the time being. 

But then, something else came to mind. He realised something important. Something… disturbing.

“Why,” he began to ask them, slow and pensive and gravely concerned, “did you ask me if he takes opiates? Or benzodiazepines? Why— Why is that relevant?”

A stillness befell the room.

“Well,” Beilschmidt said, urring and ahhing in between. “We, uh… We have very strong reason to believe Mr. Adnan was the victim of a violent crime. The autopsy showed traces of morphine and midazolam in his system, so we just… We wanted to be sure that it had, or had not, been self-administered.”

Kiku had to rest his head in his hand and lean his elbows on his desk. He thanked someone—anyone—that he was sitting down, because he was sure that in that same moment he would have otherwise collapsed to the floor. He zoned out. The world seemed to blur. There was a dull buzzing in his ear. Movement came from around him. After what felt like seconds and hours at the same time, a hand came down gently on his shoulder. Words were mumbled. He was pretty sure he heard Yao at some point from out in reception shouting about something ( _shut up, shut up, shut up!_ ) before the door to his office shut again. A cup of water was set down on the desk next to him. 

The calm voice of the taller detective slowly grounded him and pulled him back from the fray. Kiku really needed to eat something. “I’m sorry, there’s not really an easy way to break that sort of news to someone,” he said. He sounded ashamed. Kiku wished he wouldn’t—it couldn’t be helped, could it? “If you want, we can leave you to it. I don’t want to bother you any more than we already have. You need some time to process this still.”

“But—” He halted, swallowed the bowl of saliva that seemed to have collected in his mouth (it tasted acidic, soured, sharp). “But I haven’t helped you, I can—”

“No, no,” Beilschmidt assured him. His hand had moved to the doctor’s back and was carefully rubbing circles (Kiku normally would have flinched away, he would have insisted he get off, but he couldn’t bring himself to. It was so calming, soothing... ). “You have helped us, even if you feel like you haven’t. You have helped, and we’re very grateful, okay?”

Kiku swallowed again. His throat was drying. “I-I apologise for this little episode. I think… I think you are right,” he muttered, defeated. “I am not sure I can be of much more use right now. I need some time…”

“Then we’ll leave you to it,” Kirkland assured him. Kiku glanced towards the blonde and saw a faint smile, a certain kindness, a look of, _don’t worry, I understand, it’s okay_. It became slightly easier to breathe. “If you think of anything that could be useful, then you can contact us, alright?” He pulled something from his pocket—a wallet?—and fished out a card, slipping it onto the desk. “Both of our contacts are on there, phone and email. Even if you just want to talk, get it off your chest… We’ll listen.”

“Thank you. I… I appreciate it…”

“No worries,” the blonde nodded.

From his side, Beilschmidt moved, his hand disappearing from Kiku’s back as he went to rejoin his partner instead. Kiku simultaneously felt glad and cold. “Also,” he said as he walked, “you might want to check in on your friend out there. He seems stressed, or something, but he _did_ kinda just threaten to punch a police officer.”

A groan was stifled. “That sounds like Yao,” Kiku mumbled, mostly to himself, before he sighed and straightened up a little bit. “I apologise on his behalf. When he’s in a foul mood, it is nearly impossible to get him out of it. But I would not take him seriously—he is all bark, no bite, as the Americans would say.”

“No hard feelings,” Kirkland assured him, “it’s hardly the first time I’ve dealt with it. Just take it easy, okay? And remember to get in contact with us if you think of anything.”

Kiku nodded and hummed, resigned to his new purpose as a think-tank. There was still a lot to process. His mind still seemed to be half-numb. But there was one final thing that came to mind as the detectives made to leave: 

“There is someone else you could talk to,” he called out to them, voice going from loud to much quieter as he realised he was almost shouting. _Get a grip, get a grip!_ “He is a friend—one of Sadiq’s, too. He owns the veterinary clinic on Oakhill Street. It is closed on Sundays, but it opens at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Ah, okay. That could be useful. What’s the name of this friend?”

“He’s called Heracles. Heracles Katsaros.”

* * *

**_10:49am._ **

“For the last time, Ella, everything is fine,” Lovino insisted. He readjusted his phone, wedging it between his ear and his shoulder as he continued to whizz around the kitchen of the trattoria. _La Galleria._ There was a lot to do, with only ten minutes until opening, but he was used to how crazy it was doing most of this by himself. “Things are going well, and I already told you: I’m coming to visit you tomorrow. Okay?”

“I know,” Fiorella replied on the other end. Tired and quiet—that was how she sounded most days now. Sadly, it was all too understandable. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Bring me some cannoli, please? Or a big Sicilian one? I am _dying_ for something sweet!”

At that, Lovino nearly smiled. “Alright, I’ll bring you some. Is there anything else you need?”

“Just you, Lovi. You and my cannoli, please!”

“Alright, _sorella_ , I’ll bring you your damned cannoli,” Lovino reassured her—promised her—and he was sure she would be able to hear the faint smile on his face in his tone. Truth be told, he was looking forward to seeing her just as much as she seemed to want to see him. That was siblings for you. “Now go on, I’m sure you have better things to be doing than talking to me. Have you spoken to Seb recently?”

Fiorella gave a soft hum. “He was next on my list. I spoke to him on Friday, I think? Maybe Thursday…” She paused. “I think he misses being here.”

Lovino missed him being there, too. 

“Do you want me to pass on any messages?” she asked him.

“No,” he replied, “don’t worry. I’ll call him myself this evening if I can, it’ll be nice to talk to him.”

“Good. I think he’ll like that.”

 _Is she trying to guilt trip me?_ He hadn’t spoken to Seb in at least a week. Had he told on Lovino? He wouldn’t put it past him, the cheeky bastard. He loved his brother but _damn_ , was he an attention-seeker (in all the best ways of course; Lovino would never call him a bastard and mean it with any malice). So needy. So, so needy.

“I know,” he said with finality. “He will.”

He would have said more ( _no you wouldn’t have, don’t lie, Lovino_ ) but he was distracted by the main door into the trattoria opening and closing with that familiar dull thud as it shut against the frame. According to the clock, he still had five minutes before service began. An employee would come along an hour later. So who…? 

His heart momentarily stilled.

“Fratello? Are you listening? I asked you a question!”

Lovino swallowed thick and mumbled an apology to his sister, but he had to excuse himself. “If the question is important then text me and I’ll reply later,” he said, ignoring her when she blatantly uttered back a, _you’ll absolutely forget to reply_ , and instead wishing her a good day. “Ti voglio bene, Fee,” Lovino added on the end of his spiel.

“Ti voglio bene anch’io, Vee,” came her sweet reply. 

And that was it. As soon as the call ended, the smile dropped, the phone went away into his pocket, and Lovino walked through the the front of house. _Lo and behold, the Devil hath appeared._ He tried to keep his head—to keep his cool—and he met his visitor with a neutral look. He didn’t deserve a smile.

“Is everything alright, or did you need something?” Lovino asked. A grin cracked out on the other’s face and it was an effort to not look unsettled. As soft and innocent as that smile could look, he knew too well what it hid. “You have three minutes before I have to open up shop. Just spit it out, Ivan, or _get_ out.”

The Russian before him merely shrugged, deflecting, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his long coat.

“A macchiato, double shot.”

Lovino bit back a vile curse and said instead: “Sure thing.”

He eyed the other for only one second more than he really needed to, before he turned to the coffee machine further along the counter to his right. However, rather than getting anything to make the order, he reached under the counter and pulled out a takeaway cup with the lid already firmly set on top. He always made sure to have something like that prepared. It was safer for him that way.

Without another word passing his lips, he returned to the till and handed the Russian the takeaway cup, glad that their hands didn’t meet when Ivan took it from his grasp. Still, though, his heart still gave a minor flutter, a little palpitation.

“Thank you, Lovino. I’ll see you soon!” Ivan said, his smile only widening.

Lovino couldn’t be more glad when he turned and went back out of the door. That he didn’t expect a response, or demand one. That he knew he was already intimidating enough to not _need_ to demand, because those who knew him knew all too well to be scared without prompt. The Italian kept his head down and mouth shut. He swallowed down his pride and his fear altogether. 

He had work to do. So, so much work to do…

* * *

**_14:16pm._ **

Mikkel set down his cup and released a content sigh. The coffee was good there, Lukas had definitely been right—the Italians knew what they were doing. He couldn’t remember the name of the small establishment he had been dragged into that afternoon, but he wasn’t going to complain; he’d check on the way out and commit it to memory so he could bring Lukas back there one day in the near future. 

He liked Lukas.

He didn’t know if Lukas necessarily liked him back in _that_ way, but they were close friends, old friends, good friends. They had already been in the café-restaurant (or whatever it was called) for about forty minutes already having a catch-up. It had only been five days since they had last seen each other but somehow, they had so much to talk about. Mikkel was glad for it.

They discussed Lukas’ new bookshop (it had been open a fortnight now and was apparently doing quite well), just as they discussed Mikkel’s own business (a small brewery he ran with a business partner—it was nothing special, he claimed, but everyone knew how proud of it he was). They discussed a new series Lukas had binge-watched in one night. They discussed the exciting news of an album being released by a band they both like coming out in June. They discussed Mikkel’s newfound love of old Renaissance paintings turned into memes.

Next on the list:

“So, how’s Emil getting on with his university studies?”

Lukas gave a non-commital shrug, though Mikkel suspected that wasn’t because he didn’t know or didn’t care. The other took a quick sip of his own coffee. “He’s doing alright, academically.”

“Aca...demically? Is he not doing alright all-round?” Mikkel queried. A small bout of protectiveness flared up. Was Emil okay? Was he struggling mentally? He knew university was tough, and if the eighteen-year-old was struggling then—

“He wasn’t, for a moment,” Lukas told him, violently derailing his high-speed train of thought. “He got into a bit of trouble with some other students—and I mean that, as in, he was mixing with some trouble-makers like an idiot. But it’s been cleared up now. His head has been screwed back on straight.”

“Oh?”

“It was a bit messy. There was some bullying going on and also a bit of vandalism. Nothing too extreme from what I’ve been told—at least, Emil’s _involvement_ was not extreme—and I’ve also been assured he wasn’t actively holding the spray cans,” Lukas explained loosely, looking semi-reluctant to be talking about it. Mikkel didn’t want to push him, but Lukas didn’t seem to be stopping, either. “I think he’s learned his lesson, either way. Picked up some extra credits to make up for it and is focusing more on work now. Some of the others were fully suspended. No tolerance and all that...”

Mikkel simply hummed in passive agreement. “That’s good, at least, that the trouble-makers are gone…”

“Yes, it is. I think he’s doing better now for it. Less distractions.”

“Is he still enjoying… Geophysics, was it?”

Lukas confirmed the good guess with a nod. “Against all odds. I don’t know what possessed him, but if that’s what he’s into, then that’s his business,” Lukas replied, musing. “I mean, I _know_ what possessed him. The kid knows what he wants in life and he isn’t afraid to go after it.”

That was a trait Mikkel found admirable.

“Neither are you,” he therefore reminded him, just to make sure he wasn’t doubting himself in any way, or putting himself down for no good reason. _Tch_. “You wanted something, too, and you chased that dream. Look at you now, Lukas! You own a bookshop, just like you wanted to since you were young!”

“It’s only been open for two weeks, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the Norwegian replied. “It needs to be open for at least two years for it to feel like a proper success.”

“But it _is_ a success!”

Lukas rolled his eyes in that usual sardonic way. “You never were a realist.”

“Where’s the fun in being a realist? Being a dreamer is _way_ more entertaining!”

“Whatever you say. Dream on, Mikkel, dream on.”

Dream on, he most certainly would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so firstly, wow, already 100 hits?? you guys are nuts, so consider this chapter a treat to say thank you so much! i wasn't expecting that when i woke up this morning, so i'm very happy! <3
> 
> secondly, i added a new tag; not sure whether you were expecting it, but do be aware that though a focaliser/narrator may change to a secondary charatcer, you can't always trust 'em! just a warning!
> 
> thirdly, i have written a fair bit ahead now - currently into Act 2! whoop!! but i may not be able to update until the weekend now! got a hectic week up ahead with work, government appointments (three cheers for Brexit & Spanish bureaucracy), and also university events i have to help with. apologies in advance, but chapter 5 does progress the plot so you won't be waiting for pure filler :')
> 
> anywho, hope you enjoyed this and will continue to enjoy! writing this gives me immense joy & pleasure, so i can't wait for you guys to see what comes up as we progress! some of this stuff is gonna hit real different, hehe <3


	5. Act I - 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert and Arthur head to the veterinary clinic to meet Sadiq's friend. Meanwhile, Antonio is at work with friends (and demons) of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of suicide attempt (2nd half of chapter; paragraph is in parentheses)

**_Monday 16th March. 09:09am._ **

Heracles Katsaros. Vet. Friend of Sadiq Adnan. And _very_ well-built. It took Gilbert a good ten seconds to discipline himself into not staring at the guy.

The three of them—Gilbert, Heracles and Arthur—were sitting together in the vet’s office. Heracles, somewhat to their relief, had been informed ahead of time by Dr. Honda about their mutual friend. Naturally it saved them having to handle the reveal and the aftermath of Heracles receiving the news (Kiku had almost collapsed; Gilbert wasn’t entirely prepared to deal with that again (even though he actually was, because he had been personally trained by a certain boyfriend of his to handle those _exact_ sorts of situations)). It also meant Heracles had had some time to clear his head and get ready for their visit and for any questions that may come up, the first of which was:

“Can you describe the nature of your relationship with Mr. Adnan? We gather you were friends?” 

Gilbert had let Arthur lead with that, while he was on standby to take the written notes.

“We were, yes,” Heracles confirmed for them. “We’ve been friends for years. We met at university and haven't really been apart since…"

 _So, many years, indeed._ At least ten, if Gilbert had to guess based on how old Sadiq had been and how old Heracles seemed. Losing someone you had known for that long, and that well… He was surprised the clinic was open, that Heracles was sitting upright, that he was able to speak without a tremor to his voice. 

Perhaps he had used the night to accept the news.

Maybe he hadn’t even processed it yet.

"Would you say you were one of his closest friends, in that case?" Arthur went on to ask him. 

The veterinarian let out a slow, calm breath. "Maybe. Yes and no… Sort of…"

The detectives, however, paused and blanked.

"Care to elaborate?" Arthur requested. 

"We were close, _yes_ , and also old friends," Heracles supplied, Gilbert simultaneously hoping he would speak a bit quicker and less cryptically so that his poor notepad had cohesive jottings in it rather than shoddy, messy scrawls and crossings-out and question marks (it was already heading that way, and he didn't like the prospective untidiness of it). "But Sadiq was a strange one…"

The inquiry had barely begun but Gilbert had to bite down a temptation to yank his own hair out.

"As much as I cared for him, we could argue quite a lot and quite intensely."

The temptation vanished. _Motive? Arguments? Rage?_ Kiku had called Sadiq opinionated, hard-headed. Was Heracles similar? People like that were prone to clashes. Gilbert's mind began to whir.

"Do you mind if I ask why?" Arthur questioned. He was no doubt having the same thoughts as Gilbert (great minds, as they say). 

Heracles seemed calm enough to say: "Strong opinions, clashing ideas… Sometimes he would come to me, saying he had spent the night thinking about something and he had come to a conclusion that I often thought was ridiculous. He was impulsive, strong-willed. I worried that would one day…" His voice dropped off into silence, and that calm was beginning to dissipate. "You get the idea…"

"Right, well," the blonde detective continued after a shared pause, "what sorts of impulses did he have? Did you argue over something big recently?"

"Big is relative," Heracles remarked, "but I guess so."

A pregnant pause had both detectives nearly reeling, and Gilbert cleared his throat to prompt the veterinarian to continue. 

"He was about to cut all ties with his family in Turkey," he explained to them, and Gilbert made a sudden mental note to look back through Sadiq's phone at the messages he'd sent to that very family. "I think that was on Thursday, we talked—" _Argued_. "—about it. He wanted to stop contact, stop talking to them…"

"And this made you… angry?"

"Upset."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't understand why someone with a family who _cared_ about them still would want to throw that away," Heracles stated. It was so matter-of-fact, and said so clearly. To the point. _Emotionally-charged_ , Gilbert corrected himself. "I was trying to get it through his thick skull that cutting all ties with them and never speaking to them again was crazy. His family _cared_ about him."

Now Gilbert was the one to speak up and ask the questions. He was too curious: "Did Mr. Adnan tell you _why_ he wanted to cut ties? Did he had an argument with his family?"

"I don't know… I don't know if there was a _fight_ , exactly, but all he said to me was that he was fed-up. That he couldn't be bothered to make the effort anymore." _Ouch._ "It seemed weird to me, though. He used to like speaking to them, keeping contact. He missed them."

"So why did he move to the States?"

"To study. We both came here for university which is where we met, remember?" the brunette responded. "He went back a couple of times to Turkey after graduation, but never for long. As far as I know, he never intended to move back. He liked it here. He said life was just… more simple."

And all the while, the case seemed to get more complicated.

There wasn't much else Heracles could provide the detectives. Sadiq didn't have too many friends—certainly not close friends—and preferred it that way. He lived alone with a pet cat, which Gilbert subsequently promised he would bring to Heracles to both check over and look after, after the Greek made it clear that he had been the one to give Sadiq the cat to keep him company. Sadiq walked to work and back each day (night) as well because hated driving in the dark. He didn’t smoke, though he would drink, and as far as Heracles was aware, Sadiq had never taken drugs—not even at college.

All in all, Gilbert felt they'd learned a fat load of _shit_.

He contemplated that maybe Heracles could have been involved in some way, but then, it didn’t seem to fit in his mind. The pair had been close, and though they’d argued, Heracles was a vet and he seemed gentle for the most part. But then again, when you looked at history's notorious killers, some of them _were_ …

Access to morphine. He had access to morphine for his work. Gilbert would have to check in with Annikki on the midazolam to see what she had learned in her own research. It was possible that Heracles could have done something, drugged up his friend in an act of wrath (the way Heracles had said that, ' _I didn't understand why someone with a family who cared about them still would want to throw that away_ '… It made Gilbert wonder if Heracles' family didn’t care about _him_ in the same way, in which case:) or envy. 

Okay, fine. But why the lacerations? By the stabbing? Why slice him up in that way _and_ give him the drugs? Either would have killed him. Stabbing him in the chest would have done the same thing and in a much easier way.

So why— _why, why, why_ —did the killer feel the need to do that to someone? To kill them twice, and in such a convoluted manner? Why _not_ just stab them, shoot them, poison them? Why a mixture? And why so… grotesquely?

For now, the detective felt like they had barely even scraped the surface of this entire thing. It didn’t sit well with him at all… 

“Guess we should head back to the station. Our next best bet is to get in contact with the establishments that Adnan worked for,” Arthur said as the detectives stepped down from the pavement and crossed the small parking lot towards Gilbert’s car. “We should check for any cameras, see if he was approached by anyone in the days leading up to his death that could provide us some more hints.”

“Not a bad idea," Gilbert mused, dragging himself out from his down-in-the-dumps stupor so he could refocus. "I might also check in with Honda, see how he’s getting on."

Arthur gave a hum that sounded like it had a half grin running with it. “You mean to see if he has thought of anything else that would be useful for the investigation,” he said. “I know you’re a softie, but you’re a detective first, Beilschmidt.”

Gilbert barely held back a quiet laugh. He wasn’t wrong, and he was about to commend Arthur on such an observation when his phone buzzed in his pocket. _God forbid it be Basch, I am not in the mood_ — Oh. 

He stared at his mobile.

_Oh._

He swiped on the screen and answered the call.

“Hiya Lud, you good? You good, Lud? Ha, _rhymes_ —”

His brother made no noise on the other end of the line, but Gilbert could tell he was groaning. Even if it _was_ internal. “I’m fine, thank you. I hope you are well, too?” Ludwig asked him.

“Yeah, all good here, though… Gotta tell you,” the elder of the two siblings said (in the meanwhile, Arthur had started to get in the car, and Gilbert was following suit as he got into the driver’s seat); “I am kinda working right now. You got something important to tell me? Is someone dying? Pregnant? Preferably not both at the same time?”

Gilbert ignored the rather disturbed look Arthur gave him.

"No, nothing like that," Ludwig responded, however, evidently more used to Gilbert's spewings. He'd had a lifetime to adapt and adjust and accept, after all. "I just wanted to remind you that our cousin and his fiancé are in town now."

Oh.

 _Shit_.

He forgot about their cousin and his fiancé (exclusively referred to as such, these days: the-cousin-and-his-fiancé. They were an item, inseparable, their souls _bound_ to each other 'til death (or divorce) did they part. Though of course, they had both looked at Gilbert somewhat weirdly when he had said those words only that Christmas). He had completely forgotten they were scheduled to visit, due to come over and invade his city, his turf, his _zone_.

He hadn't forgotten because he didn’t like them ( _well_ ), nor because he thought they were a bit bland ( _well_ ), nor because he would rather ignore their existence ( _well…_ ). 

He had simply, _genuinely_ , forgotten. 

It had been arranged back in the New Year. Their-cousin-and-his-fiancé lived a couple states away and they had wanted to make a greater effort to see Ludwig and Gilbert because they were their only cousins(-in-law) and they had grown up together, so why not repair and nurture that bond?

Gilbert had had to play off choking on his hot mulled wine. _We think we should make more of an effort, mend the bond we had when we were all younger and nurture it, you know?_ The words danced in the back of his mind. He remembered her light tone, not too forceful, but firm enough that no one dared openly protest. Things used to be so different… 

"They're staying with me, as I'm hoping you remember," Ludwig rattled on, oblivious to his brother's momentary mental blackout. Suddenly, Gilbert felt an ache in his head, a need for ibuprofen, "and they want to see you at some point. Sooner rather than later if you ca—?"

The elder didn't quite let him finish. "While I'd love to play happy families with you all," he said, "I'm in the middle of an important case." _A case with no decent leads, no proper clues, no solid hints_. "I can't just drop everything and come over to say hello."

 _And even if I could_ , he added to himself, _I wouldn’t necessarily come running to come and spend that free time on you guys. I have other priorities, too, these days…_

"I'm not saying right this moment, or even this week. They're here for two months—" _Haven't they got jobs? Lucky bastards_. "—so there's enough time. Just… promise me you'll come? Even once?"

That struck a tiny nerve. "Of course I'll come at least _once_ , I'm not fucking heartless!"

To his right, Arthur mumbled a, _could have fooled me_ , in jest which earned him a light punch to the shoulder in _almost_ jest.

"Good," Ludwig replied. "Thank you, we, uh… I appreciate it."

"Yeah, you better had! Now go on," Gilbert said, gesturing for his brother to get lost even though Ludwig wasn't there and couldn't see the half-hearted gesture he made, "go be productive and smart and shit. Keep making me look bad."

"You don't need much help with that one."

"Cheeky fucker," the albino laughed, glad to hear his brother quietly laughing with him on the other end of the line. When he calmed he said: "Say hi to Roddy and Liz for me when you see them, yeah?"

"Of course. Stay safe, Gilbert."

"You too, Lud."

"Brotherly love," Arthur said as he exhaled and the phone set down, chipping in a penny on the matter for no real reason. Gilbert rolled his eyes and turned on the ignition, the car rumbling to life. "So nice to see two siblings getting on well."

At that, the other's brow quirked in curiosity, the rest of his brain focused on pulling out into the road without causing a traffic collision. "What, got siblings of your own, Kirkie?"

" _Do not_ call me that."

"Awww, but come on, do ya?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "If you must know, yes, I do," he responded, "and let's just say I'm fucking glad they're on the other side of the Atlantic."

"Ouch."

"I agree, they're all pains in the neck."

"That close, huh?"

"Like I said: I'm _fucking glad_ they're on the other side of the Atlantic. That's close enough for me."

Gilbert surrendered with a heavy sigh as he indicated and changed lanes, steering them back on towards the station. "Touchy subject, note taken. I won't ask again."

"Yeah, good idea."

"You know what else is a good idea?"

"What?"

"Getting coffee on our way. Sound like a plan?"

"Make it a tea, and I am _sold_."

* * *

**_14:48pm._ **

Ten minutes left of a lunch break. Six hours left until the end of shift (though, you should always factor in a possible big call out just before you're due to clock out, and therefore some serious overtime). He had only been working since ten o'clock that morning but Antonio felt tired. He couldn't be sure if it was mentally or physically.

He was sitting in the break room with Abel and Alfred, though no one was really making any conversation.

No complaints.

Sometimes it was okay to be quiet.

Antonio was on his phone. There wasn't much else to do; he'd eaten, hydrated, taken some paracetamol, checked his emails, accepted the big trauma that had come from that afternoon…

(A suicide attempt gone wrong, because the young man had survived the fall, but the internal and external damage still could have claimed him. Antonio always wished in cases like that that he could do more for a person. He wanted to talk to them, help them, to understand and listen without judgement, but it wasn't in his job description, and the patient was unconscious anyway. But still… Sometimes he felt that he could do more—that giving someone morphine and taking away the pain wasn't good enough, that it wasn’t _helpful_ enough. Gilbert had reminded him once that he was a paramedic, he was saving lives where he could, he was saving the physical… but the emotional and mental was out of his hands.)

On his screen now were photos he had taken back at Christmas—Christmas Day, specifically. 

He and Gilbert had spent the morning to themselves (doing, _ahem_ , various things) before friends and family (namely, just their brothers) had come over for dinner. The photos exuded joy, laughter, fulfilment. Everyone was happy, everyone was smiling. Each photo he flicked onto made Antonio feel warmer, and more lucky. Life was a beautiful thing and _his_ life in particular was… perfect(?).

But this—looking at photos of his happiest memories—helped him cope. When he couldn't speak to Gilbert, he instead looked at photos. Sometimes he'd find himself speaking to a _photo_ _of_ Gilbert while the other was working and Antonio was supposed to be sleeping during the day ahead of the dreaded graveyard shift. On those days, sleep had been hard to get…

"You good?" a voice spoke to him as he swiped across to another photograph (now it was everyone—Gilbert, Al, Abel, Hen, Ludwig… They had drinks in hands, all pretty much oblivious to Antonio snapping the picture for himself).

Antonio looked up at Alfred as the younger sat down next to him and gave him a small smile. "Yeah, I think so. How about you?" he asked in turn. "Are you okay? It's been an intense day so far."

"Ha—and we've only done like _four hours_." Alfred gave a quiet laugh, somewhat sardonic. 

"And yet we all come crawling back for more," Abel then chimed in. His back was to them as he was making himself a coffee (presumably), ready for his flask. 

Alfred hummed in agreement, and Antonio's own agreement remained otherwise silent. _Crawling back for more._ It was hardly an addiction, just a duty. A desire to help, but in a different way to a doctor or a nurse or a surgeon. Their roles in patients' lives was short-term and superficial. As soon as a patient got to hospital, that was the last they saw of them (and they simply hoped it wasn't the last the world, their family, their friends, saw of them).

Was that an addiction? Wanting to help? Wanting to work on a different front line?

It was still too early in the day to be thinking of that shit. He'd schedule in a mini existential crisis for another time.

"Is that from Christmas?" Alfred asked, pointing to the photo on Antonio's phone, as if the paper hats and flutes of prosecco and the Christmas tree in the background weren't good enough hints.

 _He's just making conversation, chill out._ _Tranquila. Respira._

Antonio quickly nodded in response. "That was such a good day," he said, "it always makes me smile."

"I might have some other pics as well, if you want me to send you any?" the blonde offered.

"You do? That'd be nice if you could, yeah," Antonio smiled at him. "I should get some of these printed off, really… We have at least _three_ photo albums waiting to be used back home."

" _Three_? Jesus, did they have a deal on 'em or something?"

"I actually think two of them were presents. Who from? _God only knows_ , but it would be nice to actually use them."

"Well if you want we can head into town tomorrow after work and get some printed? We finish at four, right?"

"We _should_ finish at four," Abel said as he moved to sit down, reminding them both that they rarely finished at the right time _on the dot_. And more importantly: "The shops could be closed by the time we actually finish."

"Then we see how it goes," Antonio concluded. "If we can go, we'll go. If not, I'll wait for the next free slot I have. I _really_ want to frame this one, though," he added, flicking back through the photos to show the others.

It was a photo of the three of them that Gilbert had taken. They were smiling (yes, even Abel!) and had most certainly had the giggles (okay, maybe _not_ Abel), which meant the photo had a slight blur to it, because Alfred was in the middle of a wheeze from the looks of things and Antonio was close behind. And he loved it. He loved that photo because for all three of them, it was a sign that life could be normal in spite of what they faced. It was the first Christmas where they hadn't actually been put on shift. It was the first Christmas Day they'd spent together not in uniform.

He missed that day…

"Yeah, well, I've got another one you might like," Alfred said in the meantime, a small grin breaking out on his face.

Fifteen seconds later he held his phone up to show them. Abel spluttered on his hot drink. Antonio turned red with embarrassment.

"Gilbert wasn't very scared of PDA that day, was he?"

"You should have seen Henrique's face."

"And Ludwig’s!"

"You two were really going for it…"

"Mistletoe seems to have that effect—"

"And _that_ is where we stop, my God, _thank you_ ," the Spaniard stated, shutting both of them up. He could feel his cheeks burning still. " _This_ is why he doesn't even dare to hug me around you guys anymore!"

"Oh, man, I am _so_ sending Gilbert this pic while he's at work!"

 _Ahh_ , it was a good job Abel (and no one else) was there to prevent a murder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed, i'm hoping to release another chapter this weekend as i'm still a decent amount of chaps ahead in mh writing. call it an early present ;)
> 
> but daaamn, we are already jalfway through Act I... i wonder what more could happen in the next five chapters...
> 
> also, for anyone who needs a friendly reminder: you are loved, you are wonderful, and you are bright, just like the stars that light up the night sky ☆
> 
> 'til next time!


	6. Act I - 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio gets two surprise visitors, and Gilbert gets back on track. Investigating is hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, i publish another chapter, second day in a row.  
> who's proud? who's excited? who's ready for whatever this is? :D  
> (don't get used to this—)

**_Wednesday 18th March. 15:24pm._ **

Antonio had counted his lucky stars when he and the others had been freed from work at midday _on the dot_. A miracle! After ten hours of patrolling the city and answering the odd call-out, he'd been glad to get home and have a quick shower, before crashing on the bed for a nap. By two, he was back up on his feet, glad for the short rest before he made some use of himself around the apartment.

Namely: cleaning.

He and Gilbert were similar in that aspect. They liked a clean space, they liked things neat and where they should be, they didn’t own too much clutter and unnecessary things. Though Antonio would hazard to say that Gilbert suffered a more intense need for things to be neat and tidy than he did. He could survive in mess. Gilbert would freak out. Abel would too, to be honest. Alfred? Not so much.

But still, the point was, it was nice to come home to a clean environment. On occasion, an even more pleasant feeling came to when you came home to a cooked meal, maybe even a bottle of wine (or a case of beer, which went down just as well). And while Antonio wasn’t sure he’d find the energy to cook a three-course meal before Gilbert got home (he’d have to settle for something simple, because Antonio needed sleep before work), he was at least going to go to the effort of thoroughly cleaning the flat so that the smell of clean bleach and scented candles could greet Gilbert in the event that Antonio already be asleep when he returned.

However, not ten minutes into his cleaning quest, it seemed that Antonio might not manage a _thorough_ clean at all!

The buzzer rang. Someone was at the front door. _Great_. Company? At this time? Antonio grumbled and complained to himself half-heartedly about the interruption, setting down the damp cloth on the kitchen side along with the Marigolds he had donned (Gilbert told him off when he didn’t use gloves, always so worried he’d damage his skin), and he went out to the entrance hall to find out who his mystery visitor was.

He was simultaneously surprised, disappointed, confused and annoyed.

He opened the door.

“Bold of you to assume I’d be awake,” he said to his brother, raising a brow at him as he leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest. 

“Bold of _you_ to assume I don’t know you well enough to know you don’t ever go right to bed after a shift unless it’s already nighttime,” Henrique replied with the same bravado. _Like big brother, like little brother_. “So go on, invite me in?"

Antonio never had to heart to say no. He stepped aside and gestured for Henrique to come inside, _make yourself at home_ , and was glad in that moment that the living area was at the very least, presentable (not that Henrique would nit-pick like that, not when he knew Antonio could go to his own home and rip it apart with much more ease. The guy barely dusted, let alone _opened a window_ to air the place out!).

"What's the occasion?" Antonio asked all the while, heading to the kitchen area to get some coffee brewing in the mocha. 

Henrique took a seat on the sofa and faced himself towards the other brunette. "Am I not allowed to come by and check on my little brother every now and then?"

"Of course you are, but I thought you were working," came the semi-accusatory response. "Are things slow in the office at the minute?"

"You could say that," the elder mused. "I've got a christening and a birthday in the next month, but most of that has all been seen too, so there's not much planning left for me to do. Just the execution."

"Isn't that a good thing? Not having much to do?"

Henrique gave a dry laugh. "In this economy?" he said. "I need an income, which means I need work—I literally can't afford to be lazy."

“That’s a privilege saved for the rich and royal,” Antonio concurred. “I think I’d go crazy if I had nothing to do all day, though. Can you imagine?”

“I mean, I can imagine _me_ surviving, but _you_? You’ve got no hope in Hell,” Henrique said. His brother went to protest but was simultaneously interrupted by his brother laughing to himself, and the mocha on the stove starting to fizzle as the coffee got boiling; Henrique went on to say: “Not just because you have enough energy to power a country, but because I can imagine you’d be overly depressed. Especially if your dear boyfriend couldn’t keep you company.”

He wasn’t sure whether or not he should take offence to that. On the one hand, he disagreed, because he could be perfectly independent and manage on his own without having to rely on anyone else; Antonio didn’t see himself getting _depressed_ , as dramatic as it had been worded. Though maybe Henrique was right…? Antonio would probably go crazy without Gilbert…

But then, would such an arrangement be any different to how they were living now? If Antonio didn’t work, he would still be missing much of the day, he still wouldn’t get much time with Gilbert. Sure, it would be _better_ than what it currently is, but Antonio wouldn’t change it. It made their relationship more beautiful, more important and stronger. Their time was precious. 

And anyway—

“At least I _have_ a boyfriend,” Antonio retaliated as he rummaged in the cupboards for matching cups for the coffee; “an _official_ one at that!” He tutted but grinned while his back was to his brother. “And mamá always thought you’d be the first to find your ‘one true love’ and settle down. _My ass_."

It was clearly the right thing to say to get a rise out of Henrique. He didn’t even need to turn around to imagine the offended, betrayed look on his face. _Bless him_. What wonderful moments they were, when he got to have the last laugh and knock his dear brother down a peg (or two, or three…).

Antonio carried both cups to the living area, setting down one in front of his brother, who remained flabbergasted by his previous statement.

“But— But I’m—” Henrique had been and still was spluttering. “I-I’m in a _relationship_ —”

“Having _casual sex_ does not mean you are in a relationship!”

“Isn’t that how you and Gilbert started out?” the elder accused.

Antonio scoffed. “I definitely didn’t say we were _dating_ , when all we were doing was _fucking_ ,” he said, quite unapologetically. “You and Abel will only be an item if the both of you find it in yourself to be committed. You have to find time for each other!”

“Yeah, because you’re _so good_ at doing that yourself.”

“I don’t control my shifts, nor does Gil. You _do_ , Mr. Self-Employed.”

“Look, I didn’t come here for relationship advice!”

“Then leave my own relationship alone—”

Antonio was cut off before he could call Henrique a name that he would regret, as the buzzer rang through again. _With my luck, it’ll be Abel. Fuck._ He excused himself and also collected himself as he went back towards the front door. _Please don’t be Abel, please don’t be Abel, please be literally anyone else_ — 

He opened the door.

“Is this a bad time? I haven’t woken you up?”

The brunette was momentarily stunned, struggling for words for a few seconds as he tried to overcome the minor bewilderment. “Uh, no, no—” He mustered up a sheepish smile for the (new) unexpected visitor. “Did you, uh, need something? Only, I thought you’d be at work with Gil?”

Arthur gave a light shrug—perfectly apologetic. “I know, I _should_ be,” he replied, “but he asked me to come pick up some file he left behind this morning, and said you would be here to let me in. He only just realised he left it behind, but he was adamant that _I_ come to collect it, because he was heavily focused on something and, I quote: ‘ _If I lose this train of thought I will throttle you with your phone charger_ ’.”

“Sounds like him, alright,” Antonio responded, giving a soft laugh. Gilbert’s threats were never sincere, but they were incredibly entertaining. If you didn’t know him, you’d have thought him mad with some of the things he could blurt out. “Here, come on in. I’ll find the file—it’ll be in the office.”

“Ah, alright. Thanks.”

Antonio allowed Arthur to pass him and closed the door, before inviting Arthur to follow him into the living-kitchen-dining area. It wasn’t the first time Arthur had stepped foot inside the apartment, but he was far from a regular. Antonio wondered why—Gilbert spoke highly enough of him. The guy should come over more, socialise, just like Antonio’s friends did…

“Oh, that reminds me,” Antonio suddenly said. He stopped by the kitchen counters and looked between Arthur and his brother, who had stayed comfortably in his seat. “Arthur, this is Henrique, my brother. Hen, Arthur is Gilbert’s partner.”

“Just his work partner, I hope?” Henrique joked. He got up, walked over and held out a hand to the detective, who took it amicably and shook it. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s mine,” Arthur replied as they separated again. “I have to admit, your existence has been a well-kept secret. No one told me Antonio had a brother.”

Henrique raised an eyebrow at the blonde and Antonio rolled his eyes from the sidelines. “Glad to know he thinks that much of me,” the older of the two remarked, sounding somewhat disgruntled.

“Well, not his fault I suppose; Antonio and I don’t talk all that much, and certainly not about family—”

Antonio lightly cleared his throat and mumbled in a hushed tone: “He means Gilbert,” because it made him feel somewhat awkward all of a sudden. So, to remedy that, he decided to remove himself from the room so he didn’t have to deal with it: “I’m going to find that file. It’ll be the one he’s been working on, right? Grey?”

“Uh… Yes, yes, I believe that’s that one,” Arthur nodded, flashing a small but grateful smile.

“No worries, just… Don’t break anything while I’m gone,” he said in jest, and then with that, Antonio ventured off past the kitchen and into the room on the left-hand side of the corridor: the study.

Gilbert had insisted on having a study when they had been apartment-hunting all that time ago. They had sacrificed a spare bedroom for it, but really, Antonio didn’t mind. Gilbert was a workaholic and it was always quite the sight, seeing him working away sometimes into the late hours of the night when a case was bothering him. Even before he had become a detective, he had worked on cold cases for himself, just to test himself. The way he focused, the way he obsessed, the way he dedicated himself to something he was so _passionate_ about… 

He didn’t want to just jump the gate and say it was _sexy_ , but…

On the desk were some scattered papers. When he had last seen Gilbert the night before, at about eleven o’clock (Toni’s shift had started at two that morning), he was still rambling about some of the things about the case he was on—things he didn’t understand. Antonio had had to get him to relax with the classic shoulder massage and the cuddling from behind while Gilbert was slouched in his chair. He’d eventually managed to coerce Gilbert into leaving the work and going to bed. They’d laid down together, shared some warmth... 

_Stop getting distracted. Every time. Every damn time!_ Antonio huffed at himself and gathered all of the paperwork together, tucking it securely into the grey envelope file. From what he could tell, that was everything. There were no other pieces of paper left anywhere. No notes, no tabs, no scraps. That must be it.

 _Idea_.

Ignoring the fact that he had just chided himself for getting distracted, Antonio decided an extra thirty seconds wouldn’t kill anyone. He grabbed a pen from the wire pot on the left-hand side of the desk and then pulled a post-it note from the stack. Ever the leader in romantic gestures in their relationship, Antonio wrote a short note for Gilbert, hoping that it would bring a smile to his face if nothing else, and he stuck it carefully inside the file—not on the documents themselves, but on the grey card of the file instead.

 _There_ , he told himself as he closed the file, celebrating what he counted as a small but preemptive victory, _that’ll make his day_. Assuming he was still struggling with the case...

He took the file up in his arms and left the study again, making sure the door was properly closed as he left, and he returned to the living room.

To his surprise (and delight? relief?) Arthur and Henrique had remained standing together, making conversation. They seemed to be getting on alright, which was far more ideal than them creating an awkward or otherwise tense atmosphere. 

"Here you go," Antonio said, holding the file out to Arthur. The blonde took it with a quiet thanks. "That should be it. Tell him to call if there's anything else—but I'm not guaranteeing I'll be awake if he does!"

Arthur cracked a small smile. "No worries, I'll just kick him out of the office and tell him to fetch it himself." Antonio nodded in agreement—as though he condoned such actions against poor, unsuspecting Gilbert—and Arthur turned briefly to Henrique; "I should dash, but it was nice to meet you," he said, before heading back towards the front door.

Following after him and leaving Henrique momentarily unsupervised, Antonio thanked Arthur for stopping by ( _but mostly for helping him, because not many would do that Gil_ — _as much as I love him, he can be hard to handle for some people)._ According to the Brit, it really was no trouble at all. So, without another word passing between them, Arthur left and Antonio closed the door behind him, the interruption gone.

As he walked back to the living area, where Henrique had returned to in order to continue enjoying his hot drink, the elder said: "So, he was cute."

Antonio could only roll his eyes. "We get it, you like blondes," he retorted as he sat down as well; "blondes and whatever is hiding in their pants."

"Can't be fussy these days, right?"

"I thought you and Abel were in a 'relationship'."

"Nah _,_ it's not a relationship if it's just casual sex. _God_ , Toni, didn't you know that already?"

The younger brother snorted. "What can I say? Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. A lot."

"Whore."

"Is that what he calls you in bed?"

How Henrique didn't throw coffee over him, he would never know. But he would feel very, _very_ fortunate.

* * *

**_15:46pm._ **

A file was set down on his desk, just to his right while he stared at the computer screen. Gilbert wasn't entirely sure if the 'thank you' he mumbled had been in his head or actually spoken aloud, but either way, Arthur said it was no trouble. _Bullshit._ Gilbert _was_ trouble! And proud!

_Getting sidetracked…_

"I didn't know Antonio had a brother," Arthur commented at some point or another.

Gilbert forcefully tore his gaze away from the autopsy (this was the third time he had reviewed it that day) and gave his partner a curious, quizzical look. He hadn't quite heard, and Arthur knew it.

"Antonio," the blonde repeated from his seat just across from Gilbert; "he has a brother?"

"Yeah…? Why?"

"He was at the apartment. Think I interrupted a social call," Arthur sighed. He rubbed his brow in that way that made him seem more tired and old and in need of retirement than he truly was. "He seemed a bit… _upset_ that you hadn't told me about him."

Gilbert raised an indignant brow. "Should I have?"

The other merely shrugged. "I don't see why. He was still disgruntled though, a real joy."

"I can't fucking win with him, I swear…" Upon noting the confused look from Arthur ( _looking through the window, stuck on the outside, the lucky prick_ ), he elaborated: "Henrique hates my guts. The Devil only knows why."

"Because you're dating his brother?"

"I think it's the premarital sex."

"Yikes. He didn't seem _that_ bad when we were talking."

"Well, Toni was raised Catholic, remember? Means our good friend Henrique was, too."

Arthur gave a hum that seemed to mean he had connected the very easy dots. "He must have had a bit of a shitty upbringing with it, too, then. I mean, don't get me wrong," he stumbled amend; "religion is fine… _Until_ you start suffocating others with it."

"Talking from experience?"

"Methodist."

"Fun."

"Not really. You?"

"Satanism."

"Oh damn, really?"

"Mmm," Gilbert replied with a grin growing slowly onto his pallid features. They were naturally both joking, but he enjoyed it, the light-hearted banter. Anyone else would have done a double-take at that, but not Arthur. "I had a pretty chill upbringing, as you can guess."

"And yet, Ludwig?"

"A true rebel. He puts his middle fingers up to _all_ of us," he replied. "Now come on, that's enough socialising—thanks for the file, because we're going to need it."

Now Arthur was the one raising brows. "Oh? What for?" he questioned. "What's even in it?"

"You telling me you didn’t even sneak a peek?"

"Of course not, I may be an asshole, but I'm not _rude_."

"Could have fooled me."

" _Beilschmidt_."

Gilbert tutted and dismissed him with a lazy flick of his hand; "Yeah, yeah, whatever," he said. A sigh escaped his lips and he opened up the file.

The first thing he noticed was a bright green sticky note that he didn’t remember putting there. Though, he quickly recognised Antonio’s neat scrawl and his eyes brushed over the words. He had expected a sweet note, a reminder of his worth or self-value (because those were Antonio’s favourite sorts of notes to leave) but no. What he was met with instead merely flustered him.

He plucked up the note before wandering eyes could read the words (assuming Arthur was not lying about keeping his nose out of the file) and shoved it into his pocket. He would have to have a gentle word with Antonio later on about what was and was not appropriate to stick onto his work files…

Clearing his throat (and his mind), Gilbert pushed that little blip aside and returned to the documents he had been brought.

Inside was an assortment of his own personal notes (colour-coded and highlighted as most suitable), a copy of both the autopsy and the post-morterm, copies of the notes taken during the interviews with both Honda and Katsaros, and photographs from the crime scene. Gilbert organised everything very quickly into small piles, separating them so they were much easier for the detective duo to look over.

"First thing's first," he said, "we need to work out what the fuck _this_ is—" He jabbed a finger down on a photograph taken of the symbol painted (in blood; it had been confirmed) on the dumpster. It was a bit messy and not entirely clear (blood would run, it was a liquid, even if it was somewhat viscous) and they had had no luck with it so far. "We also need to contact the next-of-kin in Turkey—I tried calling again and got _nothing_ —and we also need a new lead. Desperately _._ "

"Okay, well…" Arthur paused, presumably as there was a lot to take in in the few seconds Gilbert had spewed it all out without even stopping to breathe. "Do you think I should maybe look into any current cases? See if there are links between Adnan and anyone else who's recently been on the block?"

The very notion baffled Gilbert. "But what about—"

"It's just for eliminations, okay? Basch'll want some bastard bloody report at some point, and it would be better to cover ourselves, even a little, by doing that," Arthur reminded him. He wasn't entirely stern in his tone, but it was far from gentle and soft. He added: "We haven't got any solid leads right now, that's the issue. I'm happy to cover open cases and known criminals if you to stick to the crime scene work?"

It was a tough call, but a good one. Arthur was right. They had no leads—seeing both Honda and Katsaros had not been the most fruitful of ventures—or anything that could point them in any direction. It would indeed be wiser for at least one of them to see if there were any links or any correlations between cases here… 

So he agreed. 

"We'll do that," Gilbert nodded confidently. "I'll do some more digging on this symbol thing, and you should look for similar cases. You're right; it's best to cover ourselves."

At that, Arthur gave a small but content smile. "You got it, boss. Give it an hour and we'll see how we've done," he suggested. "If we're still stuck, we come back again tomorrow with clear heads. Sound fair?"

"Yeah. I guess it'll have to do…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, Gilbert and Henrique have some tension between it. and Gilbert might be a bit wrong about why (Henrique hardly seems like a saint, after all!). i hope you enjoyed this anywho, i do enjoy writing the Iberian brothers together. 
> 
> and guess what - fourteen chapters written in total! nearly a third of the whole work! and i am so damn proud of myself, because i never expected to actually get this far with this work when i started planning it back in March so ahhhhh!!! 
> 
> but that it where i need to leave the happy happy vibes behind, just personally
> 
> now, feel free to leave this page and carry on with your day, because i'm about to have a rant, and i just need somewhere to air this and i was in the middle of editing this chapter when this arose so
> 
> now's your chance
> 
> run if you want
> 
> but
> 
> *inhales*
> 
> so i'm currently living in Spain and working, all on my own, twenty-years old. it's been really good fun, and tho i've been a little homesick here and there, i have actually really found my feet and love living and working where i am (which is temporary, because this is only for my university placement). my family are super supportive of me, they praise my independence, fine. FINE. but one person who makes me just feel a little inadequate is my grandmother.
> 
> now, my grandmother is someone i love very much. and she had to move to England from Poland when she was in her twenties because she got married and life was supposedly better in the West and all that shit she likes to ramble on about. but she constantly compares what i am doing to what she did. sometimes it's fine and i'm like, yeah, actually, it's nice to have someone who can relate. other times, i get the odd comment that just makes me feel like shit. namely, either the fact that 'but at least you can speak the language, because i moved to England not knowing any English and had to teach myself' like. okay. i get that. but i literally just got off the phone and she says 'i was in a worse situation'. 
> 
> she was in a worse situation.
> 
> but she was married, she had a home waiting for her, even if it was a shared apartment with another foreign family, she had people with her, her husband had a job lined up, they lived in a city where meeting people in similar situations wasn't too hard. but fine. she didn't know the language.
> 
> meanwhile, i am younger than she was. yes, i speak Spanish because it's my fucking uni degree. i moved to Spain without having anywhere to live right away - i was in a hotel for nearly two weeks. i didn't know anyone here, i met one English person in my first week and never saw them again. i live in a small town. not a city. everyone is Spanish. but it's fine, because i can speak the language, so it doesn't matter. i'm in a better situation.
> 
> dare i mention, we're in the middle of a fucking pandemic? which, yes, is pretty bad back in England, but is WORSE IN SPAIN. things in my region are rough. i am, every day i work, exposed to other people in close proximity and am at risk because i work in schools in classes over aroudn thirty kids. but i get it, i speak Spanish so my life is so much easier.
> 
> tell me if i'm overreacting, but i feel like my experiences and the things that have stressed me the past two months i've lived here are being invalidated because *i can speak the language* and that puts me at such an advantage.
> 
> like yes, i get it, not speaking English must have been terrifying. but at least she had people. she had stability. 
> 
> meanwhile, i've got a pandemic, i have Brexit, and i am in a constant battle with the bullshit that is Spanish bureaucracy. 
> 
> i know what she went through was hard. i'm not trying to say i have it worse. but i'd like to think our experiences are much more on par than she thinks. it's like when we talk about people's individual experiences in life, and we say we should never compare our struggles to someone elses, because even if we think someone else has it worse, it does not invalidate our own experiences and our own problems. 
> 
> i'd talk to her about it but it would go in one ear and out the other, and i'm still letting off steam so i imagine i would snap, which i don't want to do.
> 
> hence, i have ranted here.
> 
> i may just get rid of this in a few days because this si hardly the place to let this out, but for me it's been nice to vocalise my frustration in some way.
> 
> um... sorry for that anyways. 
> 
> no more ranting.
> 
> sorry!
> 
> you can now resume your day if you came down this far, bless you. i'll see you soon with more positive vibes hehe <3


	7. Act I - 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino bumps into someone when he least expects it. Kiku overcomes a big hurdle and comes to an important realisation. Arthur reflects on... stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg look an update for the third day in a row--
> 
> (srsly pls don't get used to this, it's just been a productive weekend and i've written a lot and i feel awful making you guys wait when i'm so far ahead aha--)
> 
> ((yea that's right i'm now halfway thru writing chapter 16 and i refuse to publish more for you just yet, sue me))

**_Wednesday 18th March. 17:13pm._ **

Food. Food. Food.

Lovino needed to teach himself some discipline and start writing lists for this sort of thing, he really did. He couldn’t remember off the top of his head what he needed to by from the supermarket for himself, and he did this _every single damned week._ But did he learn his lesson? No. He was too stubborn to learn (or, in the words of his _dear_ father: _che pigrone_. Not that the _stronzo_ ever wondered where he may have picked up such habits from. Go figure). 

It wasn’t stubbornness. It was forgetfulness. There were too many things to think about, _constantly_. Money was tight even though the business was doing rather well for itself (a minor price hike hadn’t scared away the loyalists, at the very least, and the new customers would never know…). 

Currently, the trattoria, which was running its small dinner service (small in that the menu was small; he didn’t have much staff, and true to the nature of the trattoria, all food was comfort food and ideal for families, just like how it was been in the _Belpaese_ ) was in the hands of the floor manager, Maurizio. He was reliable enough that Lovino had no qualms about leaving the place in his hands for the night. It gave him a break. He _needed_ that break.

His basket so far contained milk, green tea (not to be drunk _with_ the milk, of course) and some flour. He took any fresh ingredients from what he ordered for the restaurant, so really, he only required the bare necessities.

Not that that should have stopped him writing a list.

_Should it, Lovino?_

A fatigued sigh passed his lips. This was not the time.

He passed to the confectionery aisle, if only to grab some sweets for Fiorella (because she was an addict), and busied himself with perusing the countless bags of gummies, laces, fizzy tongue-biters, before his eyes wandered a bit too far down the aisle until he found himself staring at—not sweets. That was for sure. He blinked and did a double-take, and then blue eyes suddenly met his, and before he knew it some blonde idiot was grinning at him and waving, already in motion.

It was just his luck, wasn’t it? That Alfred also be, in the very same supermarket, at the very same time, down the _very same aisle?_ Not that… he _minded_ , necessarily. It wasn’t a _bad_ thing. It just… was a _surprise_ , that was all.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Alfred said as he came to stand significantly closer to Lovino. Any closer, and the Italian was concerned he’d smell his breath ( _or his deodorant—_ ). “You after something sweet as well?”

“Not for me,” Lovino assured him. “I’m more of a savoury person, myself.” But Alfred only gave him a curious look, as though to ask, _who for, then?_ and Lovino knew he’d only ask with actual words if he said nothing, so: “My sister,” he supplied. “Biggest sweet-tooth known to mankind.”

“Mankind clearly hasn't met me, then,” the blonde replied in jest. 

Lovino could barely contain the quiet but dry laugh that bubbled in his throat. “You’re as alien as they come, that’s hardly surprising.”

A noise of indifference came from Alfred at the comment, but Lovino had a feeling he was far from offended. He may have called the idiot an ‘idiot’ without shame or remorse, but Alfred seemed to be one of few people who honestly just didn’t care and didn’t mind. Though, whether that was because he knew Lovino only half-meant it or because he was used to being called names was a side to Alfred that Lovino was far from getting to know (not that he actually wanted to get to know the idiot, of course).

“What about you, anyway?” Lovino pressed on, his eyes moving away from Alfred and back to the sweet in front of him ( _you’re trying to distract yourself but it’s not working, dammit_ ). “Are you trying to get your sugar fix as well?”

“Absolutely! My blood sugar seems to be taking a hard hit today, but I got home and realised I didn’t have any chocolate or candy or _anything_ in my cupboards,” he rambled on, the speed of his words picking up slightly as he went; “so naturally I thought I’d go to the shops, at which point I figured I should _also_ get some dinner in me, so—” Alfred pointed down to the basket in his hands and a rather… anaemic ready-meal lasagna. _Insulting_. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Lovino struggled to tear his eyes away from the plastic-wrapped monstrosity. “Desperate measures, huh?” he mumbled. “Didn’t realise you were living in the fucking apocalypse. You know a lasagna is not that hard to make, right?”

“I’m too physically, mentally and emotionally drained to even search for the lasagna sheets in my cupboard, my dude, let alone cook the whole damn thing.” Lovino could practically hear the childish whine trickling out in the other’s tone, in the slouch of his shoulders, the semi-pout on his lips. “Just let me eat my microwavable junk, _please_.”

“At least you’re acknowledging it’s junk.”

“Hey, I’m a doctor, I know what’s good for me and what isn’t!"

At that, the laugh escaped Lovino unchallenged. “Okay, _firstly_ ,” he said, turning to face Alfred more directly, “you’re a paramedic. And _second_ , you’re thinking of a nutritionist. Or any random citizen who knows what a properly balanced diet is. _Idiot_.”

“Look, it contains protein and cheese, what else could I possibly need?”

“I’d say fruit and vegetables, but we _are_ standing in the confectionery aisle," he deadpanned.

"I survived this long, I don't think it's gonna do me any serious harm," Alfred concluded, asserting himself. Poorly. "And if it does come back to haunt me, then so be it."

"If that's how you want to be remembered, you do you. 'Alfred Jones, the man who was killed by his lethal microwaveable lasagna addiction'," Lovino snorted.

He was somewhat glad that Alfred shared in the humour and was chuckling quietly with him (a quiet Alfred was different to the Alfred he would sometimes be greeted with at opening time, big smiles, eyes gleaming, a loud (honeyed) voice greeting him from across the entire trattoria). Though, what he said just made him think of something…

"If you like," he began to say, gaining Alfred's undivided attention once more, "I could always show you… _how_ to make a lasagna. A _proper_ _Italian_ lasagna."

Judging by the slightly arched brow, a distant twinkle that seemed to ignite in such curious, adventurous eyes, Lovino would hazard to say Alfred's interest had been well and truly piqued.

That was, until his face dropped and he shrugged about three seconds later. Lovino was fairly sure his stomach had plummeted to the ground just as fast (or had he just forgotten to eat lunch again? or drink water today?).

"I dunno," Alfred replied, "I think I'd rather learn how on earth you make such an amazing tiramisu!"

_Wait, what…?_

Lovino took a hot second to piece those words together. "The… tiramisu?" he repeated.

"Yeah! I mean, you remember me telling you when I dropped the dish round the other day, right? That everyone absolutely fuckin' _loved_ it?"

"Y-Yeah? But—" He stopped and started again: "You actually want to learn how to make it? For real?"

The blonde scoffed, as if Lovino had something so incredibly ridiculous. "Of course I do! If you'd be up for showing me one day? I, uh… I don't get to bake often—"

" _You don't bake a tiramisu._ "

"—but I really do enjoy doing that sort of stuff, so I can promise you right now, I'd be your best student!"

"You'd be my _only_ student," Lovino corrected him. "I've never shared the recipe."

"Oh."

"Mhmm."

"Is it, like… top secret?"

"Perhaps."

'Aww, no fair—!"

" _But_ ," the Italian said, cutting him off before the whining got too loud, "I'll show you how to make a tiramisu one day, on one condition."

" _Name it_."

"You learn to cook something new _without_ using that fucking microwave of yours. Okay?"

Alfred gave a big grin. _Challenge accepted._

* * *

**_19:53pm._ **

Another late night, another load of paperwork that needed sorting. 

It didn’t help much that Kiku had not gotten much sleep ever since the police had come to visit him on Sunday. The few hours he _did_ manage to get had been sufficient enough to get him through his appointments at work, but he’d neglected the other administrative work that the surgery needed in order to operate: appointments to schedule, emails to sort out and reply to, the monthly expenses he had completely forgotten to go over (payroll, bills, stock…).

To catch up with it, he had forced himself to stay in the surgery until it was all done. Was that healthy? Perhaps not. But if he didn't end up sleeping anyway, then why not be productive with that potentially wasted time? Once time was spent, after all, you couldn't exactly take it back to the store with a receipt and demand a refund.

His finger fell down onto the backspace key and the email was deleted. 

That was the fourth time.

It wasn't an email for work, now, just some personal emails back to his family who, like him, had all spread out from home. Only his parents remained in Japan, and even then… how much longer would they…?

Kiku huffed rather loudly, his emotions starting to get the better of him, and he occupied himself temporarily with his tepid cup of green tea. 

He wasn't over it. It still hadn't sunk in. _Sadiq is dead_ , he told himself at least fifty times a day, in the hopes that maybe his brain would finally absorb that information, but so far, it was a fruitless effort. _Sadiq is dead._ Patient and friend. Were they friends? _Are we friends?_

What made this even harder presently was the fact that he had received a message a few hours ago—an email from the police. Or more specifically, Detective Gilbert Beilschidmt. It had been disguised as a friendly check-in, an offering of any extra support that the liaison office could handle, but when he scrolled down far enough, there had been a little section he had never expected to read…

> ' _...unately, we have been unable to get in contact with Mr. Adnan's family or possible next of kin, which has proved a challenge for our official paperwork. Although we have an ID from a mobile phone, someone is required to positively identify the body so that we can officially name Mr. Adnan as the victim and lay him to rest appropriately. Although I don't want to put that on you, knowing this is a hard time for you and you are a busy man, you are one of very few options we have. If you would be willing, please get in touch so we can arrange a date/time, or you can of course say no. That is entirely your choice. We understand this is not an easy thing to do; howev…_ "

And what was he supposed to say to that, exactly? They wanted him to identify the body… They had already come to him and told him Sadiq was dead— _yes; Sadiq is_ _dead_ —but now they needed it to be official? What if they had got it wrong? What if he walked into the morgue and was met by a John Doe rather than a Sadiq Adnan? What then? The sleepless nights were for nothing? The pain? The silent crying in the early hours of the morning? 

( _You know it's him, he hasn't answered your messages, your calls, your emails. Sadiq doesn't not answer those things. Ever_ ). 

Why was life so… brutal? So calloused?

Yes, Kiku knew Death. He had met them many times while training to be a doctor, just as he had met Death in Japan with his family (his grandparents and an aunt from his mother's side). He did not fear his own personal appointment with Death. But he did not like it when Death took someone away before it seemed to be their time. It was cruel, unjust...

 _No. No, fix your logic_ , he chided himself. Death had not taken away Sadiq; a _murderer_ had. A human being. A person who wanted to play God. 

Kiku had not yet replied to the email.

He was saving it for tomorrow, when he felt a little more composed. It had been such a long day…

Ten minutes passed the doctor by as he continued his routine of typing out a paragraph and then deleting it all. He couldn't find the right words. The email came from his cousin, with whom he had a very close relationship, but how was he supposed to tell him that he wasn't okay? That his friend, Sadiq, was dead? _Sadiq is dead_. He was supposed to be more steeled to death, to the hole it left. He worked in the medical field! People like him, they should know how to cope!...

So why couldn't _he_? Why couldn't _he_ cope…?

A door closed elsewhere in the surgery, and a few seconds later, Yao opened the door to Kiku's office. Kiku hadn't even realised he was still there.

"You are still here, huh?" the older man asked, raising a brow. It wasn't a curt statement, or at least, it wasn't meant to be as rude as his tone might have suggested. Yao was just concerned. Kiku didn't need to be told it, to know it. "Are you going to go home at some point tonight? You look like you need some sleep."

"No," was all Kiku was able to say. "Not yet."

"Why not? If there's lots of paperwork, I can help you with it tomorrow so we can get it done much quicker," Yao offered (it was tempting, but it would have been embarrassing to show such a diligent man how far behind Kiku had gotten, wouldn't it…?). ""Two heads are better than one, as you frequently remind me."

Kiku shook his head. "It's fine, truthfully. I just… want to get it done. I feel productive right now—" _Lies, lies lies._ "—and want to get as much done as I can while I have the motivation."

"Are you… sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright then, I won't bother you," Yao responded in a quieter mumble, before he said with a bit more volume (and assertion): "But if you do have anything you can't get done tonight, don't force yourself. I will help you with any other paperwork tomorrow. We are a team, remember?"

At that, well, a small smile stretched out onto Kiku's lips. He was surprised at himself. But Yao was being so understanding and kind about the situation, and in that moment, Kiku realised something so very important: _Sadiq is dead, but Yao is alive._ Yao was alive, and he was being the friend that Kiku needed. He needed to bear that in mind…

_Sadiq is dead, but Yao is alive._

* * *

**_20:02pm._ **

Kiku was too stubborn for his own good, but Yao recognised such a quality in himself, so he could hardly chastise him for it. The man was struggling, after all. He was aware of who Sadiq was and that, although Kiku labelled him a 'patient' before calling him a 'friend', they did have some sort of connection. Not many people had ever made Kiku smile. Yao would never forgive whoever had taken that from him.

Having now left the surgery and Kiku with it (though he had insisted Kiku send him a message when he got home, so he knew he was being at least _somewhat_ sensible), Yao sat in his car, phone in hand.

He scrolled through his contacts until he found the right name and called them. This had been on his mind most of the day, if he were being honest with himself, and he felt some sort of nauseous excitement about it. Was that weird? He was a grown adult, over thirty years old. Why did he feel like a teenager…?

After about ten seconds of ringing, someone finally answered on the other end and he was greeted with the usual warm and friendly tone. Yao wasn't sure how they did it, but it always brought a smile to their face and slight warmth to their cheeks.

"Are still up for meeting me tonight?" was the only question (that mattered) that passed his lips.

He was delighted that the answer was 'yes'.

* * *

**_22:14pm._ **

Arthur was glad to be back in his apartment. He had finished work with Gilbert about three hours ago, but the other had insisted they grab a quick beer somewhere to numb the fact that they had gotten no further with the case. Who was Arthur to refuse?

It had been surprisingly pleasant to go out, in the end. Gilbert had dragged him to a new place that Arthur hadn't yet been to, and it had had a nice atmosphere and a small clientele, meaning Arthur hadn't gained a headache from a loud environment and had enjoyed the 'quick beer' (they had been there for nearly two hours, in truth) much more than he had anticipated.

Arthur was still getting used to the city.

Cities themselves weren't necessarily an issue. He'd grown up in London before America had called to him, and he'd ended up working on the West coast (not in any of the _massive_ cities, but at least somewhere big enough to make one feel inconsequential; like a single pebble on Chesil beach (what fond childhood memories…)). Now he was on the other side of the States, in a new city, a new office, a new partner, a new attitude towards life…

He was getting there, though. He could feel himself gradually becoming more accustomed to the place. It was cooler, which was much more comfortable for him, and the pace of life seemed just a little bit slower, which he'd never expected to appreciate.

Yes, some things would take longer to get used to. He was glad he and Gilbert had gotten on from more or less the moment they'd been introduced to each other at the station, _your new partner!_ Gilbert was a decent guy with a good heart, a quick brain, and an _awful_ sense of humour. It was a good match. He liked Gilbert. He had made the move a bit more… bearable, really.

Arthur knew he could grow to love the city much more. He could. He _would_. It was his new home, a new life, a fresh start. He wanted this— _needed_ this—to work. But for now, he was just grateful he had some genuinely good people to work with, people that he got on with and could comfortably call his… _friends._ Actual friends. _It's about time._

With his jacket hung up and the curtains drawn, Arthur decided he would make himself a cup of tea (he always did before bed) and do a final check of his emails and messages, though, God forbid that anyone had _actually_ contacted him for nothing work-related.

As the kettle boiled and he opened his texts, he saw that Gilbert had recently texted him: ' _Thnks for agreeing to come out, glad ur not a stick in the mud <3 Sleep well and i'll see you 2mrw!_' 

Arthur reckoned he might have had another beer or three after getting home. It _had_ been a rough day. Though he had to wonder whether Antonio was awake with him, or if Gilbert was now keeping his own company…

Either way, he fired back a quick: ' _a_ _nd I'm glad you're not an ass. Get some sleep as well and see you tomorrow, k?_ ' before leaving it there. If he got a reply, he got a reply. If not, then at least he could tell himself Gilbert was getting some rest. It seemed that the fellow hadn't been sleeping as well as normal since Adnan's body had been found…

He could only hope and pray that things got better for them all, and soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look, happy fun times.  
> i hope they last :)
> 
> ...
> 
> ...
> 
> ...
> 
> ...
> 
> ...
> 
> OH and if you were wondering: "che pigrone" - 'how lazy', or, 'what a lazy guy', or, even better, 'what a waste of space' which tbh same-- :')


	8. Act I - 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursdays are special days, and this Thursday in particular might just be unforgettable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: food/cooking scene

**_Thursday 19th March. 17:45pm._ **

The fact that a whole day of work had produced no new leads, clues or even random theories for the detectives to follow was not going to put Gilbert in a bad mood. He had been adamant about the fact. Why? Because it was a _Thursday_ , and _Thursdays_ were very special days. Why? Because _Thursday_ was _date night_.

Gilbert loved date night almost as much as he loved the lucky (sweet, funny, charming, _hot_ —) individual he got to share it with.

Antonio had been working the daytime shift and was set to finish at seven, having already informed Gilbert he'd needed to stay on shift for the extra hour. For Gilbert, what that meant is that he would have the extra time to prepare something nice for him, to make up for all the times Antonio had done the same for him.

In order to start this process, however, he had decided to leave work a bit earlier than he would normally. He would have felt bad, but…

"We haven't gotten anywhere today, it's _shit_!" the German had huffed as he went about gathering the few things he needed to take home with him (keys, phone, wallet, case file, notepad). Arthur remained sitting down comfortably at his desk, twisting the cap off a bottle of lemonade and letting it slowly hiss at the world. "But I don't think an extra hour is going to make any difference. I'd rather try again tomorrow—fresh start, fresh mind. I'm not a very effective worker in the evenings."

"Opposite to me, then," Arthur had mused and then declared: "I'm going to keep at it until seven, see if I get anywhere. Unlike you, I'm more productive at this time of day."

"We can't _all_ be night owls, you know…"

"Go on, don't worry. I know it's a Thursday and you're _aching_ to go back to your dearly beloved," the blonde chuckled. Was it that obvious, Gilbert wondered? His desperation to get going? _Damn_. "I'll let you know if I work anything out, but otherwise, I reckon you should go and enjoy your evening, okay? You could do with the downtime."

It had been a piece of advice that Gilbert was not going to refuse.

Arthur had wished him a good evening as he left the office—a good evening to both him _and_ Antonio, he had specified—and from there Gilbert had hurried out to the parking lot so he could drive home. 

The plan was simple: get in, cook dinner, set the table (and the mood), freshen up, welcome Antonio back home at approximately half-past seven, enjoy dinner, watch a movie, maybe enjoy some cuddling, and if they really got into it, maybe move the cuddling into the bedroom.

He had been looking forward to this _all day_.

During his drive home, the only thing Gilbert did was repeat the steps in his head over and over like a mantra. Even as he walked towards the apartment complex and ascended towards his unit, he repeated it like so: _cook, mood, fresh, Toni, eat, film, bed_ (or something along those lines, at least).

Cooking dinner wasn’t too hard. 

The menu, much like the plan, was simple: skip the starter and go straight for a main meal, and then follow it up with a traditional bread pudding for dessert (Antonio loved Gilbert’s bread pudding which had been somewhat of a surprise to Gilbert, just as it had been a massive boost for his ego back when he was still trying to ' _woo_ ' the brunette ( _who the fuck says ‘woo’ these days?_ )). That had already been prepared, so all he needed to do was put the bread and ingredients into a dish and let it bake so that it would be piping hot, freshly done, and ready to eat.

What Gilbert needed to focus on for the moment, however, was the food for the main course.

The first thing Gilbert did when he entered the kitchen was wash his hands. Then he put on an apron (and yes, he’d bought the apron himself) and got himself in the zone.

Healthy and hearty—that was how he cooked. Some people looked at German food and would wince because it looked carb-heavy, unappetising, too _brown_ , or just plain weird. But it was good food, _comfort_ food…

Gilbert began with the meat. He was making _rouladen_ as his main course, which was simply beef rolled up with various seasonings and some bacon. It was simplistic, rustic, and _incredibly_ tasty. 

To begin with, he seared off the beef rolls until they had all browned along with some chopped onions and mushrooms, before adding a beef broth and some water. When, a few minutes later, the concoction had started to boil, he turned the heat down to low so it could simmer and cook and gain some flavour. It could be served straight from the pan.

While the _rouladen_ had been starting to simmer in the broth, Gilbert had started to move onto the side dishes that would accompany, beginning with the potatoes.

He set a pan of water on the stove, before adding some salt to the water and putting in some peeled potatoes. While they were boiling, his attention turned to the beetroot (called _buraki_ in this case; admittedly, not a German recipe, but he enjoyed them and fuck tradition… just this once).

It was easy enough to prepare: all he needed to do was get the ready-cooked beetroot from the fridge and grate them until he had enough for dinner and his fingers had been stained a dreadful fuchsia. From there, he whipped out another pan, set it onto the stove next to the potatoes, and began to create a roux, with salted butter and whole flour. It didn’t take long for it so combine and start bubbling. The magic was beginning.

From there, it was simply a case of transferring the grated beetroot from the chopping board (also now stained pink) into the pan with a neat swipe of the knife. A pinch of salt, half a teaspoon of sugar, a splash of white vinegar, _et voila._ He mixed it all through and let the mixture heat up properly to make sure it all combined and cooked together, and that was it. He could let the beetroot sit and be reheated later on when it was time to eat, and instead, he could return to the potatoes.

Now that they had boiled, it was onto the mashing. Easy enough. Then a generous knob of butter, a little splash of milk, and he mixed it all through until he was left with a pan of tasty, fluffy, moreish potatoes. Tada!

With the sauerkraut salad already prepared and made (he had felt incredibly productive at five in the morning, so he had decided to get at least one thing over and done with so the salad could chill sufficiently during the day), there wasn nothing left to do in the kitchen for the time being. A quick clean-up was executed quickly and efficiently, with every last spec of flour and beetroot being wiped up off the marble surfaces of the kitchen counters, and the floor even earning a once-over with a damp cloth.

So, dinner was done, more or less.

That meant it was time to move onto step two: setting the table!

It was a five-minute job; Gilbert gave the dining table a spray with the polish and dusted it off so the dark wood was _nice and shiny_ , before he lay down the placemats, the napkins and then the cutlery. The wine glasses he was also going to use required an extra clean before he could let them be used as dust had started to settle in them, but a quick rinse from the tap and they were ready to go! Otherwise, the final touches included a simple table runner down the middle of the table (the wood looked too nice to permanently hide with a full tablecloth) and some candles (unscented ones on the table, mind you; he’d light a separate scented candle and place it on the living room’s coffee table).

So, now the food and table were _both_ sorted. Now he just had to continue. _Cook, mood, fresh, Toni, eat, film, bed_ … He could totally stick to that plan, right?

* * *

 **_19:33pm._ **

Antonio pushed his key into the lock and opened up the door to the apartment, relieved to finally be back in his comfort zone, a calm place, a safe bubble. It had been a long and gruelling day, and although the constant thought of, _it's Thursday_ , running through his head had kept his spirits high, it never quite stopped some things from slipping through the barrier...

Luckily, he hadn't had to pronounce anyone dead today. That was something, at least. On those days, Antonio came home and he couldn’t even face his own reflection ( _pathetic failure_ ) or Gilbert ( _what if I lose him, too?_ ). Those days, he had a shower and went straight to bed. Sometimes he'd wake alone, or he'd otherwise wake up with Gilbert holding onto him for dear life. He wasn't sure which one made him feel worse, in such moments… 

But today was a relatively _good_ day. No dead patients, no losses, no breakdowns. Antonio wasn't going to let wandering thoughts ruin what was supposed to be a good evening before it had even begun.

He shut the front door and set the latch, his keys going into the designated bowl on the side table, and his duffle bag being dumped on the floor for the time being. By the time he had taken another five steps into the apartment, Gilbert had made himself known and popped up around the corner (no, he definitely did _not_ make Antonio jump), his arms quickly going out to request a hug.

He even did the grabby-hands.

How could he resist?

It felt good to have arms around him after today. He returned the gesture just as keenly, giving Gilbert a bit of a squeeze as his arms locked around the other's waist. _My teddy bear._ Antonio first rested his head on Gilbert's shoulder as the cooler skin of his hands started to seep through his t-shirt. Would it be weird to say that it made him feel… warm? In spite of the cold?

After a few cosy seconds, Antonio lifted his head and pressed a kiss to Gilbert's cheek. Though, it didn't quite get the response he had been after.

"I've waited all day to see you again ahead of tonight, and you stroll on in, and just give me a little _peck_ on the _cheek_?" Gilbert remarked, indignant. "Romance is dead."

"Well if you wanted something specific, then learn to instigate more," Antonio threw back.

(But neither of them actually meant it, still happily holding onto one another. _Firmly attached._ He didn’t need any evidence that Gilbert still loved him because it was all too obvious in the way they were looking at each other, in the way Gilbert had clearly done all the work for this week’s date night, in the way he _knew_ that Gilbert had lit his favourite scented candle, because he just caught a waft of it coming from the dining room and—)

Acting on those spoken words, Gilbert unwittingly distracted Antonio from the ‘Pink Sands’ that had invaded their personal space, and he kissed Antonio promptly... Sweetly... A little messily, if Antonio were leaving an honest review, but he didn’t mind a little mess when it came to Gilbert. Not really. Tender kisses and soft touches were reserved for different times. _Let him be passionate_. Better for both of them to forget about work for the time being..

When Gilbert pulled away, there was a smug grin on his face. Antonio tried not to laugh. “I don’t know what competition you think you just won,” the brunette remarked, “but I think I was the _real_ winner.”

“Ah, well, does the champion want a kiss from the beautiful princess in that case?” the other replied, already leaning in closer again. 

Antonio barely managed to say: “It would be rude to say no to royalty,” with a honeyed laugh, before they were back on each other, connected, kissing significantly messier than before. _Who knew the princess could be so scandalous?_ Hands ran and roamed and ventured and, _God_ , it was like they hadn’t seen each other for a millennia, celestial lovers destined to collide only at this moment in time— For a moment, Antonio wondered if they would skip dinner. All that work Gilbert would have put in, wasted. _Unless he planned this to happen instead, of course_ …

Breath.

They needed to breathe again, yes, that— That would help. Antonio was undoubtedly flustered, and Gilbert looked no different, but both broke out in smiles all the same. They pulled apart properly, hands to themselves once more as they unanimously decided to walk into the main room of their apartment. You know, so they weren’t making out (or heading something towards more) in the hallway right next to the front door. Heaven forbid someone ever hear them while walking past.

“Has your day been that rough?” Antonio eventually asked. Pink Sands hit his senses again and the sweet spice warms him through with a light tingle. Gilbert knew how to get him. 

“It was honestly terrible, but we won’t go there,” the other stated. Antonio wasn’t going to push it—his empathy was far too strong. “And you? How was your day?”

“We won’t go there,” the Spaniard mimicked with a telling smile.

“Well, hopefully this evening can cheer us both up, eh?”

“Trust me, it already has."

"Good!" Gilbert exclaimed, seemingly louder than he had intended based on how he recoiled at his own voice. He cleared his throat and gave a sheepish smile: "Good, uh… I'm glad! It should get even better from here, though. Good food and good company!"

Antonio expressed his content at the thought. _Good food and good company_.

He would have gone as far to say it was modesty, because Gilbert was more than 'good'—and more than just 'company', come to think of it! And his cooking— _gah!_ —he'd been hooked ever since Gilbert had first invited him home for dinner, back when they had first started dating. What was it now… Four years together? Antonio yearned, _desperately_ , for that positive trend to continue. Gilbert was the best company he could ever ask for— _hope_ for—and he was a company that Antonio never wanted to lose.

He'd gotten lost in his sentiments, again. 

Gilbert was talking about something and pouring some wine into a glass (he didn't even have to ask, he just _knew_ that Antonio needed it) and he only realised it when he blinked and found them both stood at the dining table. Antonio noted how he had gotten the space ready; the table had been set with precision, it smelt of wood polish and light smoke from the tealights, the bottle of red wine that was now in Gilbert's hand which was selected from a short list of their mutual favourites… 

He hadn't been listening at all to what Gilbert had said. Why was that, again…? Oh, yeah, right… Wandering thoughts. Half of his brain felt like mush. And based on the way Gilbert was looking at him expectantly, he had just asked Antonio a question. _Fuck._

"Are you definitely okay?" Gilbert asked him. The concern in his voice made Antonio feel a million times more guilty given that he was, indeed, okay. "Did anything happen today that you want to talk about…?"

The brunette shook his head. "No, sorry, I just…" He couldn't think of a way to say it without it sounding a bit random, or ill-timed. But it was better to just say it, so: "I just love you. And you distract me."

It would do.

"I distract you from me? Seriously?"

A strangled sort of noise came from Antonio (Gilbert dared to laugh), who claimed his glass of wine in the meantime. "I know it sounds sappy, shut up," he mumbled out, embarrassed. "I was just thinking about you. And me. _Us_ … How much I love you."

"Aww, for real?"

"Of course for real! You— You know I love you! Right?”

A laugh spilled out of Gilbert as he proclaimed: "I know, and I love you, too. I just think it’s real sweet that you still get distracted by my good looks and Germanic charm,” he remarked. Antonio could’ve sworn he wiggled his eyebrows in that stupid but suggestive way. What a dork. _My boyfriend’s a dork._ A loveable dork. 

Antonio cracked a grin. “Yes, yes, it was definitely the ‘Germanic charm’ that got me hooked.”

“And the uniform? You liked it when I wore the uniform.”

“What can I say? Yours was sexier than mine is.”

“Matter of opinion.”

“Oh?”

“You come with free healthcare in-house.”

“You come with handcuffs.”

Gilbert almost choked on his wine, having to unfortunately let it spill back into his glass to avoid spluttering on it. He took a moment to compose himself while Antonio, who felt very proud of himself, continued to sip his own wine with as innocent a look as he could feign.

“You—” The detective (schoolboy) stopped again. His mouth opened as he went to speak, but it closed just as fast. He couldn’t do it. He shook his head, took a swig of wine (Dutch courage? French courage? No, wait, they were drinking rioja— _Spanish_ courage?) and stammered out a: “You are still f— _full_ of surprises, Schnucki.”

“Just like to keep you on your toes, _princesa._ ”

“Mausen.”

“Cielito.”

“Hase.”

“Cuchifritín.”

“What did you say about my coochie?”

“Oh, _jefe_ , I would know if you had a coochie. And since you failed to think up another cute name for me,” the Spaniard said, raising his glass towards his lips again (though now he was playing coy rather than innocent), “it looks like I win. Again.”

Gilbert shook his head in disbelief. “You’re not getting another kiss.”

“That wasn’t a kiss before, that was— More intense.”

“But you enjoyed it.”

“Without a doubt.”

“So do you wanna go agai—”

“I think we should eat dinner first,” Antonio suggested.

As much as he would have loved to continue their chaotic form of flirting and wooing, before any more energy was spent doing any… _activities_ … he would appreciate gaining some more energy first. And the faint smell of cooking that the Pink Sands was doing its best to obscure was starting to seep through. Break had been early on shift. Antonio was hungry. And knowing that Gilbert had likely been cooking his usual hearty, warming, comfort food… 

Gilbert did not argue with him, to Antonio’s delight. He invited the brunette to take a seat at the dining table while Gilbert saw to warming up and serving the food—even when Antonio offered to help. “Sit down,” he’d said, “and relax. You’ve been on your feet since five this morning.” 

How could he fight that logic?

They continued to converse about the random thoughts and dealings of the day across the open space of their apartment while Gilbert worked away. A few minutes later, he walked over with bowls (they often served food like this—in a help-yourself self-serve way—because one could never predict what one’s appetite would be when it was time to eat), before going back again, bringing more bowls, and then returning at last with warm plates. 

“Pudding’s in the oven, so it should be done in an hour or so,” Gilbert said as he sat down. He threw a loose gesture to the food in front of them. “Hopefully you enjoy this. Made with love, as they say.”

Antonio lifted his wine glass and held it out towards Gilbert, who met his glass and tapped them together with a melodic _ching_! “I’m sure it’s wonderful,” he replied, “it always is. You’re quite the chef. I _love_ it when you cook for me.”

“So it’s the handcuffs _and_ the apron that do it for you, huh?”

“And the snuggly cuddles,” the brunette added. “You give the best cuddles.”

“Okay, okay, gotcha. Handcuffs, apron, snuggly cuddles,” Gilbert repeated to himself. He paused for a moment before a grin broke out on his face. “I’d better make a note of that.”

Antonio laughed, Gilbert laughed, and they both got ready to tuck into the food while it was still hot (minus the sauerkraut, of course). Gilbert went for the meat first and Antonio aimed for the mashed potatoes and then— A mobile phone began ringing. Green eyes darted over to the kitchen, where the ringing was coming from, before they landed on his partner. It was Gilbert’s phone. He looked reluctant to get up and see who or what it was.

“Shouldn’t you… get that?” he said. “Or at least see who it is, to see if it’s important?”

He could tell Gilbert was conflicted. He was happy, settled, relaxed—but Antonio was ultimately right. Gilbert needed to make sure it wasn’t important. Both of them always had their mobiles on volume because work had a habit of calling them sometimes, even when they wanted nothing more than to forget that work existed. As such, Gilbert, with a heavy sigh, pulled himself up out of his seat and went towards the kitchen, leaning over the counter to grab his phone. 

The short string of expletives that left his mouth was not a good sign. Antonio could feel his heart slowly starting to sink.

The one-sided conversation did not last long. He could only hear what Gilbert was saying, and even then, it was tired, unenthusiastic, deflated… A series of mumbles and sighs and ‘okay’s. When the call ended what couldn’t have been more than a minute after the call had been answered, Gilbert turned around to look at Antonio, and the expression on his face said only one thing: _I’m sorry_.

“I’m sorry,” Gilbert said—with his mouth this time. He stepped towards the dining area by a few steps, but he didn’t get too close, perhaps out of fear that he would be pulled in and be delayed. “It’s work, uh… They found a body.”

Antonio swallowed the small lump in his throat. “A body…? Another one?” Gilbert could only nod. “Then you should get going, detective. I think you’ve got a busy night ahead of you.”

“I’m so sorry, Toni, I wish I could stay—”

“Don’t worry about me, you have a job to do and a duty to carry out,” Antonio interrupted him. He got up from his seat and walked over to Gilbert, pressing a quick kiss to his lips as though to reassure him that it was okay, that he didn’t mind, that he still loved Gilbert unconditionally. “Your team are going to need you.”

Gilbert was unable to say anything besides a quiet ‘thank you’. He returned the gesture and stole a short kiss in turn, before he made a bee-line for the front door, grabbing his jacket and car keys on the way. Antonio watched him go—watched him take each stride—up until the front door shut with a slam and he was left alone. 

He reminded himself: _his team are going to need him_. It was unfair to hold him back when he had such a vital role. He knew that Gilbert needed to go. He accepted that it happened. He understood that it was in the nature of Gilbert’s job as a homicide detective, that he couldn’t always control his work hours. _His team are going to need him_ , he told himself as he returned to his seat and took his wine glass in hand, taking a generous sip. His eyes drifted to the bowls of food. He would let it cool, cover them up and put them into the fridge. _His team really do need him_. 

But sometimes… _sometimes_ … Antonio needed him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my favourite line to date: "you come with handcuffs". my writing has peaked. it's all downhill from here, lads :')
> 
> also writing the cooking scene put me in the mood to cook buraki (the beetroot) myself and maaaaan was it good. reminds me of home uwu  
> ('tis a polish recipe, for anyone curious)
> 
> anywhos, happy december, folks! it's finally cold enough that i can wear a jumper at work! how's your december going so far?


	9. Act I - 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detectives meet their new victim and find themselves with a good possible lead. The morning after, it's time to pursue that lead and see where it gets them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: crime scene descriptions, minor character death
> 
> edits (5/12/20): corrected some dialogue in section 3 to fix chronology

**_Thursday 19th March. 20:14pm._ **

Gilbert turned up at the crime scene in a positively foul mood. He would have to find a way to make up for his summons and apologise to Antonio—but for now, his new priority was work.

Arthur was already there and greeted him, an apology quickly leaving him— _I know this has shat all over your evening_ —before he guided Gilbert towards the body. Anna, who had no doubt also been plucked from her own domestic bliss, was also there, gloves on, doing her preliminary examination of the body and the scene around them. Once more, they found themselves in an alleyway, back on the East Side. An awful feeling in his gut told him that this was the work of the same person. _We’ve been too slow. We could have stopped this_.

He told his conscience to sit down and shut the fuck up for the time being.

The body looked far less maimed than Adnan. There was less blood, less mess—but that wasn’t what stuck Gilbert. That was not what sent a chill down his spine. That was not what made his stomach twist into knots.

“It’s the guy from the surgery,” he muttered under his breath, aghast and somewhat nauseous upon recognising the still face. “Why in God’s name _him_ now _…_?”

“I had the same reaction,” Arthur commented from his side. The blonde looked to Gilbert, who met his gaze, and he gave him a neutral expression but an understanding gaze (that was his way; never openly emotional when it came to the crime scenes, but always there to be a shoulder to lean on for those who needed it). “Full name Yao Wang. Honda’s work partner and closest friend—closer than Adnan was, at least.”

“And so Dr. Honda and his little surgery pops up again…”

Gilbert crouched down to meet the body at eye level. He noted that, though the body (he couldn’t call it Yao, or Wang, because that would create some emotional attachment that he could not risk having to the victim at this point in time) lacked the same brutal lacerations all over the skin like the previous one, there appeared to be deep slits in his wrists. It was like a suicide scene, only, it made no sense that the victim be in an alley, there was no sign of what he may have slit his wrists with, and painted on the wall to the right-hand side of the body was another symbol painted in blood once more—a different one to last time, but a symbol nonetheless.

Definitely not a suicide in that case.

The German detective turned to Annikki. "Have you got anything so far that we could find useful ahead of the autopsy?" he asked her.

"Not really any more than you can see for yourself," she said somberly, her lip trapped between teeth as she carefully processed the scene before her. "It's definitely been staged as a suicide, though it's been done very poorly. Judging by the discolouration of his lips and skin, there's a chance he suffered respiratory depression. Hypoxia," the pathologist added as an afterthought. "Likely from an overdose."

"Similar to our previous victim, then?"

"Very," she confirmed with a nod.

"Ideas for time of death?"

"Uhh… Well, he's been dead for quite a while—sixteen hours, or thereabouts, if I had to put a number on it."

Sixteen hours and only just found? Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Considering that Annikki had said there wasn't much she would be able to tell them, Gilbert felt like she was doing a fantastic job. _At least someone around here is._ He swallowed down his guilt for the time being and stood up once more.

"We'll wait on the autopsy to confirm the cause of death for us. For now, _we_ —" Gilbert met Arthur's gaze. "—need to focus on connections between Adnan and Wang. Starting with Honda. We'll go in the morning, as soon as the surgery is open."

"Do you think he'll be able to cope? I mean…" Arthur's words trailed off and his eyes dropped down to the body for a brief second, before he collected himself with a soft cough. "That'll be the second person he's lost in less than a week. I can't imagine he'll want to talk to us right away."

"Maybe not, but we have to try. He's our only lead," Gilbert responded.

He acknowledged of course that Arthur had a very good, solid point: having lost two friends, he wouldn't be surprised if the good doctor stopped functioning all together and had a breakdown. The surgery might not even stay open, now that it would be missing one of its physicians… A thought was momentarily spared for the patients tomorrow who would not be seen to, those whose ailments went untreated, and those who would miss Yao Wang (and his seemingly short temper).

"You're right, we have to try," Arthur conceded.

The blonde gave a sigh and turned, stepping away from the body to look more at their surroundings. Meanwhile, Gilbert began to contemplate the similarities between both victims, trying to fashion possible MO's. Another alleyway, another symbol, nighttime killing, overdose, possible knife wounds—some things more surprising (or alarming) than others.

Honda really was the only viable connection they had to work with. Two friends, now dead. Gilbert knew the visit to the surgery tomorrow would be a painful one. How would he react to that sort of news? If he lost his closest friends, he'd be devastated. For a moment he even imagined losing Antonio (it was a scenario that played more often in his mind that he liked) and that was enough to dry out his throat and churn his stomach. 

Getting in contact with liaison for some support was something, he decided, that he would see to in the morning. If he couldn't get through to the doctor, then the best thing he could do for the man was provide him some support. Of course, it wouldn't bring them back, just like it wouldn't catch a killer…

But it was the least he could do, having failed so far to catch the elusive killer, and having failed to save another person's life.

* * *

**_22:47pm._ **

Antonio was already in bed when Gilbert got home. 

He decided to finish off his glass of wine from earlier on, which had been left on the dining table presumably in the event that he would need it, before he went to join the other. 

Gilbert kept Antonio close as they slept, a protective arm settled around his partner, that subconscious fear of losing him—seeing him just as he had now seen Adnan and Wang—plaguing him even in his dreams.

When he woke up the next morning at around six, he was alone in bed once again. The sheets next to him were cold. _And so the day begins_.

* * *

**_Friday 20th March. 09:34am._ **

The detectives were back at the surgery. It seemed relatively quiet, which meant there would hopefully be less disruption. There were two patients already in the waiting room, Gilbert noted as they went to the reception desk. He wondered if one of them was supposed to be seeing Yao…

He pushed the thought back down.

The receptionist, whoever she may have been (because Gilbert didn’t recognise her from their Sunday visit, but he supposed that didn’t really mean anything), informed them that Dr. Honda was seeing a patient currently, but that she would quickly go and see him and inform him of their arrival. _Very well_. Arthur and Gilbert were left stood at the desk, idly waiting for a few minutes before the young woman with her dark hair and light skin came scuttling back out to the reception area. 

“The doctor will see you now,” she said. She didn’t even look at them as she sat back down, her eyes darting back to the computer screen and her fingers to the keyboard. 

“Right, well… Thanks,” Arthur mumbled, vocalising their appreciation. 

Gilbert led the way, passing the patient that Dr. Honda must have just finished seeing. It was easy enough to remember which office belonged to Honda—there were only four rooms further up along the corridor, one of which was a supply room. Well, that, and the rooms also had name plaques on them. Just in case.

He knocked on the door and waited to be told he could go in. Kiku was sitting at his desk, a somewhat glum look on his face. It seemed to take a great effort to pull his eyes from his screen and look at the detectives. _This is going to be so much harder than I expected_.

“Detectives,” the doctor said when he could finally face them properly, a hand gesturing to the seats typically reserved for his patients. “If you had called in advance, I would have been a bit more prepared to see you. It has been a rather… hectic morning. Our only other doctor currently available to work today—Yao, you might remember—did not show up when he usually does. I'm starting to wonder if he is hungover somewhere. He never could hold his drink. And even worse, we're already a bit behind with patients because he decided not to turn up yesterday, _either_."

 _And we know why_. It wasn't because of a hangover. Gilbert shared a look with Arthur. Last time, Gilbert had been the one to break the news to Kiku about his friend; this time they had agreed it should be a burden they share between them. Arthur appeared to quietly clear his throat behind his hand, before he turned his gaze to the doctor. Gilbert watched Kiku still.

“We come bearing news,” he stated.

“About Sadiq?” Kiku questioned hopefully.

“No,” Arthur refuted. “About Mr. Wang.”

“What— What do you mean…?”

“I’m afraid it isn’t good news, Dr. Honda. We… Another body was reported last night,” Arthur said, and suddenly Gilbert felt a _thousand_ times smaller. And if that was how Gilbert felt, he couldn’t even begin to imagine how Kiku must have felt. The doctor barely seemed to be with it, like he was starting to zone out…

Was he…? Oh, _dammit_ , what was the word? Dissocial— No, _dissociating_. Was he dissociating? Escaping reality? Gilbert couldn’t blame him or his mind for helping him run.

And then something rather unexpected happened that took Gilbert by surprise—a whole _series_ of things, in fact.

First, Kiku looked back to his computer. He typed something quickly, as though finishing off an email. Then he grabbed the line phone on his desk and connected himself through to reception, if Gilbert had to guess based on what he calmly said: “Cancel all of today’s appointments. Something has come up.” He didn’t even give the person on the other end a chance to respond, he just put the phone down. Then followed several long seconds of an excruciatingly painful silence. And then, at last: “Tell me what you need to know.”

Gilbert was taken aback. Arthur probably was, too. Perhaps he hadn’t dissociated at all, maybe he was just in such a severe state of shock that even _he_ didn’t know what he was doing.

The German detective had a concerned look on his face, brows furrowed and tone unsettled as he said: “Are you sure you’re up for this? It’s a lot to deal with, we don’t want to intr—”

“I have lost two people that are very close to me,” Kiku interrupted. His gaze was stern, almost ablaze. “I don’t know why. I don’t know what they could ever have done to deserve it. But it is my duty as their friend to help you as much as I can, because they at least deserve that.”

 _Give it a day_ , Gilbert told himself, _and it’ll fully hit him_. He just hoped that Kiku would have someone to rely on and talk to. Heracles, perhaps. Were they close? He didn’t know. And that was beside the point.

“If you truly are certain you want to help,” Arthur began to say in the meantime, “then we will try not to keep you for too long. Yao was a good friend to you, I take it?”

“You don’t go into business with someone who is not a good friend,” the dark-haired man replied. _So that means yes_. “He was a pain to work with, I have to admit it. He was tough, hard-headed—I believe you would say ‘stubborn as a mule’. But yes, he was a very good friend. My best.”

“Then we give you our sincerest condolences. And we appreciate your willingness to help,” the blonde assured him. “I suppose anything you can tell us would be useful. When was the last time you saw Yao? Wednesday, I assume?”

The good doctor nodded. His eyes drifted over his desk for a fleeting moment before he looked between both detectives, like he was unsure who to talk directly to. “Wednesday night. I was working late, and he came into my office—I think it was around eight o’clock—to see if I was staying here. I told him I was, because I was behind on paperwork. He offered to help but I said no..."

The silence that fell was a little intimidating. Mostly because Gilbert could recognise guilt in the other’s words, in his tone, in how his face seemed to sink and his eyes fell down to the desk once more. He could see that Kiku acknowledged guilt in how he could have said yes, he could have kept Yao with him, maybe he still would have been alive. But you could never be sure of such a thing. Would Yao have stayed? Would it have made any difference if he still ended up dying in the early hours of the morning when Kiku was back home?

There was no way to be sure. And thus, there was no reason for him to blame himself for what happened, for what could have been, or for what was inevitable. Gilbert would have told him such, had Kiku not found it in himself to continue.

“I was here until very late. I think I had four hours of sleep—it must have been around one, two in the morning when I left? I fell asleep at my desk at some point, but I— I needed to get the work done,” he said rather sheepishly, as if neither Gilbert nor Arthur could relate (and Gilbert most definitely could; college had been rough).

And then Arthur just _had_ to ask: “Can that be verified?”

Gilbert would have to suggest to Arthur that he work on when he did and didn’t have tact.

“If you need proof, there’s a camera in reception,” the doctor supplied all the same, unperturbed by the not too indiscreet accusation. Maybe they were just that like-minded that he took no offence? _Go figure_. "You’ll see me on the footage coming and going, and then eventually leaving. I can get a copy of the footage for you if you need it.”

“That would be appreciated. I assume we’ll also get a precise time for Mr. Wang leaving, which would be useful.”

_Ah. Nice save. And also a really good fucking point, why didn't I…?_

"On that note, is there anyone you can think of that could have had a reason to want to hurt Mr. Wang in any way?" Arthur pressed on. "A patient, perhaps?"

"No, no, not a patient—he seemed to get on relatively well with them, or at least tolerated them enough to not receive any complaints against him," Kiku responded with an avid shake of his head. "He may have been a bit impatient and blunt, but he was outstanding at his work."

Gilbert was momentarily reminded of their previous visit to the surgery and the foul mood Yao had been in. He had questions of his own, there ( _a pain, stubborn, hard-headed, but a good doctor, tolerant, Kiku's best friend… They seem like such different people_ ), but it seemed like an inappropriate time…

"Outside of work then, perhaps? Did he ever mention anyone by name?"

"No, never. It's… It's like I said," the doctor went on; "he could be a pain, he was stubborn, opinionated…"

"Like Mr. Adnan was, I think you said the other day?"

"Yes— Or even more so…" Kiku hands came up onto the desk, fingers fiddling with each other erratically. He was stressed, anxious… Gilbert knew they should not stay too much longer lest they break the poor man. "Sadiq avoided conflict. Yao would… likely rise to a challenge… He'd never _start_ a fight or an argument, but he certainly likes to have the last word."

So he had a similar personality to Adnan, in some ways.

Kiku did them a service of showing them Yao's social media pages so they could make note of usernames for their own investigations. While they had no passwords, they could see who he interacted with publicly, and based on his Twitter profile at the very least, some of his opinions did not seem all that popular—whether his account was anonymous or not. It was something the detectives would simply have to look into further.

Before the detectives left, the doctor also provided them with the security footage from the reception area camera. They would review it in their own time. Gilbert had thanked Kiku for all of his help— _y_ _ou've been very forthcoming and open with us, and we appreciate that very much_ —as they made their way out of the surgery. Kiku had little to say other than a quiet: _I hope you find who did this_. And with that, the detectives had exited.

Gilbert wasn't entirely sure what to make of Kiku. He seemed decent, intelligent, kind, strong-willed in his own way. He was also the only connection between Adnan and Wang. 

_But_ , the detective considered as he and Arthur walked to the car, _if Kiku did it, how? He's a small man, and Adnan isn't. How did he move the body? Unseen? And why would he want to kill his closest friends?_

For now, it just didn't add up, which left the detectives with only more questions than they had started with. And Gilbert had this awful feeling that things were not about to get any easier… 

* * *

**_20:10pm._ **

Gilbert returned home to a note on the kitchen side informing him that Antonio had just popped out to the shops (time-stamped: 19:45pm) and that he would be back shortly. Two things came to mind: firstly, why on earth didn’t he go after work so he could get an earlier night, bearing in mind he started work at about five in the morning; secondly, why didn’t he just send a text?

(It was because—as Gilbert knew deep down—Antonio was fully aware of how much Gilbert actually loved receiving and finding little notes here and there. The brunette had gotten into a habit. Sometimes Gilbert would find a note by his keys in the morning, or under the windscreen wiper of his car. Or even something written on a sticky note that had been placed in a super-important-and-confidential work file filled with evidence and documents that was a bit too inappropriate for the workplace, thus causing him to blush furiously and struggle to hide his sudden fluster and (mild) arousal.)

(Yes, that had unfortunately happened on _more_ than one occasion. He was no closer to getting Antonio to stop such brutal torment (even if he would save the note and read it later in private, in his car, and allow himself to fantasise, if only for a minute)).

Beer. A cold beer. That sounded good.

Gilbert went to the fridge to find a bottle for himself, hoping to flop down on the sofa and not move for at least the next half an hour. As he was moving things out of the way to get to the few remaining bottles, however, his phone began to ring from where he had left it on the kitchen side. _No, no,_ he chided himself, _leave it_. 

And then he remembered it could be work.

 _Fuck_.

He abandoned the fridge and checked the phone.

It wasn’t work.

It was Mikkel.

 _Ah, well, not an emergency in that case_.

Not currently in the mood to talk to his friend, he returned his attention to the fridge and its chilly contents as his mobile continued to ring. Mikkel would either text him or leave a voicemail as he usually did when Gilbert decided not the answer.

And, oh, lo and behold! As Gilbert popped the cap off the bottle and enjoyed that first, bittersweet sip of golden joy, a notification buzzed on his phone. A voicemail, he discovered. _Why couldn't he just text me too? Why don't people text these days?_

(It was because most of the time, it was easier to record a verbal message and send it especially when one was busy with other things. Gilbert was very much aware of this. Antonio sent him frequent voice messages (he loved hearing his voice while he was working, wishing him a good day, sending him love…), as did his busy-bee of a brother, as did, now it seemed, Mikkel. And it was perfectly reasonable. Gilbert was just in a Scrooge sort of mood, though, more specifically towards people's methods of communication rather than Christmas).

(Gilbert _adored_ Christmas).

He played the message.

> ' _Heya Gil! Long time no see! I think it's about time we fix that, ya know? Let me know when you're free and we can get together for a drink, a catch-up… Maybe a little mayhem, too! Get back to me when you can, okay? Miss you, stinky!_ '

Being called 'stinky' made Gilbert laugh to himself, a snort escaping him as he went to drink more of his beer. But really, it wasn't a bad shout. A drink and a catch-up was long overdue, it must have been at least a month since he saw Mikkel, and he was one of his closest friends…

Gilbert's mind drifted to Yao and Kiku.

The front door slammed shut.

Antonio's return was the instant distraction that Gilbert needed. So he decided to put the beer down and greet the other with a hug and maybe a kiss, for good measure. Mikkel would wait a bit longer before he got a reply…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit day = early publishing
> 
> this story cheers me up, as does hearing from readers - i'd love to hear any theories you have, or even just any general thoughts you have about this work so far! one more chapter to go and Act I is finished - i wonder how it'll come to an end.. ;)
> 
> also someone tell Toni to stop writing notes, dammit, he's distracting Gilbert tch :'<


	10. Act I - 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The A-Team are on shift and Abel gets to reflect on his work. Alfred bumps into someone unexpectedly on the way home and gets a surprise. Later that evening, Gilbert gets a different sort of surprise entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a long one to round off Act I! merry december, peeps! :D
> 
> tw: needle mentions, injuries

**_Saturday 21st March. 13:06pm._ **

Abel took his seat in the cab of the ambulance, Alfred following suit, while Antonio hurried to the driver's seat to take them back to the hospital. It had been a somewhat hectic day (when wasn't it?) but now they had a boy in their care—a boy with a broken leg. His mother was with them, sitting next to Alfred while Abel led the preliminary treatments on the road.

"I told him not to climb that tree, it's old, unsafe!" she muttered to herself, looking and sounding rather distraught.

She'd been in tears not long before, but after Abel had confidently reassured her that her son would be fine, that his leg would easily be fixed, and that he most certainly would not die, she had calmed down enough to travel with them. Abel hated little more than hysterical family members. They never helped the situation, and always made his job more difficult. Call him unsympathetic, but…

"It's alright," Alfred placated in the meantime. His smile was so warm and kind. Abel was almost jealous of how easily he was able to settle people. _Almost_. "Abel here will give him something for the pain in just a second. Trust me, he could have done much more damage. He's very lucky, and also very brave—" He turned to the boy (eleven years old, apparently) with that same smile. "—for letting us help him."

Abel let the small conversation that followed fizzle out into the background. Meanwhile, we worked on getting some painkillers for the boy to alleviate what he imagined was an incredibly sore injury, judging by the wet cheeks and red eyes the kid had. While he didn't exactly condone climbing trees and falling out of them, he had to agree with Alfred: he was brave. _Thomas_. _Thomas_ was brave. Not one loud sob, not a whine, not a complaint. Abel was rather impressed by his resolve.

He prepared the cannula to put into the boy's hand, also locating some cold numbing cream to apply to his skin. Abel told Thomas what he was going to do just to make sure that both him and his mother were okay with it, but before he did, Alfred moved and took the boy's hand in his. "Squeeze it as hard as you need to," he said. Thomas only nodded.

 _Alfred would make a good parent_ , was the thought that ran through Abel’s mind as he cleansed the area of skin, administered the numbing cream and waited that vital minute. "Just take a deep breath for me and relax your hand, alright?" he said to the boy, who nodded once more. And then Abel carefully slipped the small needle into the vein, feeling a small pang of sympathy as Thomas winced. 

But three seconds later, and the initial pain was gone. The cannula was in. Now it was time to give him a little bit of morphine, just to take the edge off the injury. Really, Alfred was right when he said the break could have been much worse; the fracture was internal, there was no open wound or blood or anything too frightening for the kid (or his parents) to worry about. It was just his leg and his ankle—both of which he was certain had broken in some way or another. He got off fairly lightly given how big the tree he'd been climbing was and the height of the fall he had endured.

The hospital was not too far away. Antonio wasn't speeding through the streets, as it was evident they were not dealing with something life-threatening, so Abel estimated that they had about ten minutes before Thomas would be in the capable hands of the ER medical staff. With the boy's pain slowly subsiding, there was little else that the paramedics were able to do.

Shortly after Abel had administered the painkillers, the bottle of morphine going into the cabinet and the used needle into the bin, a question was asked: "Why did you want to become ambulance doctors?"

It was a relatively common question frequently asked by the younger patients they had, though, some called them 'ambulance men', 'ambulance workers' or otherwise 'paramedics'. It was a pleasant surprise when someone gave them the correct title.

Not that Abel ever criticised a child for not knowing.

"Go on, Alfred," the tall blonde said; “you can start. Why did you want to work in the ambulances?”

Alfred gave a nod and smiled at the boy, who still held onto his hand (Abel spared the mother a glance, but she was smiling weakly herself at the scene in spite of her previous fret). “I guess it was because I got to be like a doctor,” he remarked. “I get to help all sorts of people, I can help them feel better, I can save lives, and I get to work in this awesome ambulance with two very good friends of mine.”

The boy laughed in spite of his injury. “You’re like a doctor, but cooler!”

“Precisely!” Alfred agreed. ”But don’t tell that to the doctors in the hospital—they’re pretty cool too, and they are _incredible_ at what they do.”

“And what about… What about you?” Thomas asked, carefully turning his head towards Abel.

He almost didn’t want to say. _Why did you want to become a paramedic?_ He remembered being asked that question several years ago when he had gotten started on this career path. He hadn’t really told the truth then, either. Saying that he wanted to help people and save lives was the most cliché thing he could ever say, but it was the golden answer, what people wanted to hear…

Thomas was still looking at him expectantly.

Abel swallowed his pride and said, at last, without missing a beat: “I failed one of my modules at university that I needed to go onto Advanced Medicine. Twice. But I didn’t want to pay to complete another year of study, so I decided to go into EMT rather than GP.”

He wasn’t sure what response he had expected, but Thomas smiled and seemed to laugh almost at what he said, even if he hadn’t entirely understood what he was on about. But the fact that it had amused the boy was enough for Abel. A small smile slipped onto his own face for a moment as he met Alfred’s gaze. Alfred was smiling too. _Everyone_ was smiling. 

_It’s always good to know people think my failures are so funny_ , he told himself cynically—not that he actually minded. If he had passed those modules, he wouldn’t have met Alfred or Antonio (or Henrique, for that matter) and he couldn’t say that he would have been happier. As stressful as work was, he enjoyed it, it fulfilled him, and he would stay in the ambulances for as long as he could— _’til death do we part_.

* * *

**_18:09pm._ **

Abel had offered both Antonio and Alfred a ride home after their shift had finished. While Antonio had accepted the offer, Alfred had turned it down because there were things he wanted to do before he went home, so he bid them both a good evening and went on his walk.

It was just an excuse. There wasn’t anything big or specific Alfred _needed_ to do in town or anywhere, really, but it was nice to walk sometimes and get some fresh air after a day’s work. Plus, he could stop by a certain _Galleria_ on the way home and pay a certain someone a visit (and maybe grab a coffee on the way, because he could feel a caffeine crash coming on and Alfred didn’t want it to hit before he had at least cooked dinner).

The walk home altogether would take no more than half an hour. He would pass Lovino’s café-restaurant-trattoria-galleria about twenty minutes into the journey. 

When those twenty minutes passed and his phone told him it was now about half-past six, Alfred went to take a shortcut through one of the alleyways between buildings that would bring him out right next to the trattoria. However, as he walked along the quiet lane, he stopped in his tracks upon hearing a noise. Not an _oh-shit-time-to-run_ noise, but more of a quiet noise, muffled, upset, _hurt_ … His paramedic senses (definitely a thing) began to tingle. 

Alfred picked up the pace. He walked quicker along the alley to see if there was someone there who was hurt. 

There was.

That was a shock enough in itself.

The next shock came as soon as he saw who it was.

“Lovino…?”

The Italian was standing (barely) and leaning against the wall. An arm was wrapped around his waist, like he had a stomach ache (or something worse) and Alfred could see as he neared that he seemed to be shaking. He repeated his name, which alerted the Italian to his presence, and his heart dropped when he saw that a bruise was beginning to form on the other’s face, and that it appeared he had recently been crying.

 _Someone did this to him_. That was the first thought he had. The second thought he had was: _I need to help him._ He wasn’t going to ask questions. People got defensive and closed themselves off much quicker if you acted nosy and tried to find out exactly what had happened, and that was not his priority. Alfred needed to make sure Lovino was okay, that he wasn’t too badly hurt, that the arm over his stomach was not concealing a much more severe wound than he hoped.

“What— What the f-fuck are you doing here—?”

“Don’t worry about me, I was just walking home from work,” Alfred assured him, before Lovino could try to turn attention away from himself. “Looks like I might now be working a little overtime though—if you’ll let me?”

Lovino mulled it over, looking Alfred up and down as though he expected him to suddenly pounce and finish the job, a deer in headlights, or more accurately, a half-dead deer facing the barrel of a hunter’s shotgun (too morbid?). And then he swallowed, huffed, and tried to stand up without the help of the brick wall.

“We go in through the back. My apartment’s upstairs,” he told the blonde, nodding vaguely towards his establishment. “No funny business, no… No questions…”

Alfred nodded his agreement to the terms and conditions, and held out an arm for Lovino if he needed it for extra support. The Italian ignored it at first, but within seconds of his starting to walk, suddenly, the arm became a very useful crutch. Alfred slung his work bag over his shoulder and out of the way so he could support Lovino as much as possible, letting the other lead the way to the back entrance. 

It took about five minutes for them to get inside the building and up the flight of stairs to the apartment. No staff had seen them, so Lovino had avoided any embarrassment (or interrogation, which Alfred had a feeling the brunette hated even more), and he became less tense when they were up on the second floor.

Lovino pulled a key from his pocket and gave it to Alfred. “You can open the door.” A demand rather than a question. Alfred obliged.

The apartment was minimalistic (whether by design or because Lovino simply didn’t have much to fill it with was a different matter entirely, and totally irrelevant) and small, with a few things littered around that made it seem a bit untidier than it was. Lovino urged them both towards the sofa, where, when he finally managed to plop down and relax, a pained groan left him and he let his head sink into his hands. _Ah, so_ now _the embarrassment was setting in._

“Do you have a med-kit or anything?” Alfred asked his newly-acquired patient. “You have a cut on your cheek, and I think I could help with the bruising.”

“I’m fine, you don’t need to hang around and help me. I can manage myself.”

But judging from Lovino’s demeanour and the way he was starting to settle onto the couch, Alfred imagined he would stay there, that he wouldn’t move, and that his injuries—however minor—would be left untreated. He wouldn’t condemn Lovino to martyrdom. So, he could only think of one thing he could say that might let him do his job:

“I don’t think I should leave until you either tell me what happened, or let me help you.”

Was it a bit unfair? Perhaps. But either way, Alfred would have to stay, and Lovino hadn’t the strength to kick him out.

After a few moments of silence, a sigh came from Lovino. He lifted a hand and aimed it towards the kitchen, presumably to point in a very vague and energy-sparing way. “Cupboard above the sink to the right,” he said as Alfred began to walk. “There’s a small box. I’m not bleeding.”

“You got ice in the freezer? Peas?”

“There’s an ice-pack, yeah.”

Alfred nodded and took the entire box in his hands, before rummaging in the freezer box for the ice pack. Lovino had at least confirmed that he wasn’t bleeding anywhere (besides what looked like a cut on his cheek, but perhaps he just wasn’t aware it was there; it was only a small thing), so there would hopefully be no emergency runs to the hospital. Assuming nothing was broken. 

Flicking the switch in his brain, Alfred turned on ‘paramedic-mode’ and first instructed Lovino to put ice on the bruise on his face. The ice would hopefully reduce the blood flow enough to reduce any swelling and make the darker patch less apartment. He’d have to keep it there for ten minutes.

“Mind if I take a look at your stomach?” the blonde asked next, feeling that was the most severe injury he would have to deal with. He knelt down on the ground to be both less intimidating, but also at a good level to assess the damage.

“Of course I _mind_ ,” Lovino responded in the meantime, which he followed up with a three-second pause. “But I won’t stop you. I think it’s just more bruising—” He pulled his top up and sat up more straight. Alfred didn’t miss the wince he gave. “—it feels sore, but they didn’t go for the ribs, so I don’t think anything’s broken.”

“You haven’t coughed, not spat up any blood? No deep pains?” Alfred questioned as he looked carefully at the affected area. He didn’t want to touch it, because he thought it was remarkable enough that Lovino was letting him do this, and he didn’t want to push boundaries so quickly. 

Lovino shook his head at the question. “Like I said, it’s just real fucking sore…” 

“Alright, you might have gotten lucky then. I’d still recommend getting this properly look led at—”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“Superficially. I can only do so much without the rest of the ambulance with me, you know,” Alfred remarked, though he gave the other a smile to ensure the mood remained light. Lovino almost seemed to be smiling back at him. An almost-smile was good enough, given the circumstances. “If you really don’t wanna get this checked out at the hospital, then I’ll do my best. But I’d suggest you not do too much and aggravate the injuries, even if it is just bruising. The minute it feels worse, you need to see someone.”

“Mmm…”

 _He needs rest._ Alfred got up and promised his swift return as he went back to the freezer to find something that might help with the sore stomach. He also figured it would be a good idea to get the guy some water, so he hurriedly opened and closed cupboard doors until he could find a glass to use (even though it ended up being a mug because it was the first thing he saw) and filled it up from the tap.

However, just as he was coming back to sit down on the floor once more, the cup and ice-pack going down onto the table, Lovino mumbled something that he didn’t quite hear. 

“You okay, Lovi…?”

“I think…”

“You… think _so?”_

Lovino shook his head. “I think— I-I’m going to be sick.”

_Ah._

An hour later, Alfred was back on his way home. Lovino had indeed thrown up in the end, though Alfred had managed to get him something to vomit into so it didn’t go everywhere. A bit of comforting and some shaky drinks of water later, Lovino had found it in himself to open up to Alfred about what had actually happened in that alleyway. As Alfred made it to his own front door, he decided that now he would have to find a way to make sure nothing like that ever happened to the Italian again. 

He didn’t deserve that sort of treatment. _No one_ did.

* * *

**_19:57pm._ **

Gilbert was on his way home. Annikki had managed to get a completed autopsy to both him and Arthur before the end of the day, which he had given a brief look-over in the office, but he had decided that maybe he would read it through properly at home with a beer. Being in the office had given him a headache, and he had wanted to leave as soon as possible.

Today, they had largely investigated Yao’s social media and people he had been in contact with. It seemed that he’d received the odd threat from an unhappy person on the internet, but whether Gilbert could connect any of them at all to the case was a different matter. There were a couple local people that he would be paying a visit tomorrow during the day. The thought that someone from out of the city could be responsible did come to mind, but then, at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel that Kiku had some sort of connection to what was happening. Two people he knew were dead…

Though he had not voiced his concern outright, Gilbert had made sure to drop Kiku an email earlier that day to offer his confidential, informal and personal support should Kiku have any worries, concerns or needs. Part of him feared that a third body would pop up and it could be Honda himself… (And on that note, maybe he should look into Kiku’s own possible enemies. There were so many avenues they had yet to explore; Gilbert would have to write a list when he got home).

It was as he pulled up in his parking spot in the apartment complex that his phone began to ring. To his mild surprise, it was actually his brother. Not work, not Mikkel (who he still hadn’t even replied to), but Ludwig.

He answered it hastily.

“Hi Lud! You good?” he asked his brother as he got out of the car, shut the car door firmly, and began to walk towards the stairs that would take him up to his apartment. 

“I’m fine, thank you. Yourself?”

“Peachy, as always.”

“Alright, well, I won’t ask. I assume work is quite busy for you at the minute, but I won’t ask for the details,” Ludwig responded. Gilbert always appreciated that Ludwig just _knew_ , that he didn’t _have_ to ask. They may not have been twins, but he could have sworn Ludwig could read his mind at times. “I’m actually calling to see if you’ve thought any more about coming to see our cousins.”

 _Ah, our-cousin-and-his-fiancé_. He forgot that they were still here, in his city, in his personal space. Gilbert tried not to grimace too much as he arrived on his floor and began the short walk to his front door. In his left hand, his keys rattled with each step he took.

“We were thinking that maybe you would want to come over for dinner one day,” Ludwig went on in spite of his brother’s blatant silence. “They do genuinely want to see you.”

“That may be the case, but work is breaking my back at the minute with good reason—I’ve got two bodies on my hands right now, Lud,” he tried to reason. “I don’t know if I can afford to leave work early to be the evening’s entertainment for you guys.”

“But sometimes, you need the mental break as well. I understand work is tough at the minute, but you need to take time—even if it is a few hours—for yourself to wind down and breathe,” Ludwig explained to him. He was so mature, so wise beyond his years… How unfair was that?! Gilbert got the key into the lock and let himself in. “You’re a good detective, Gilbert. No one doubts that. But you’ll be of more value to your team if you have a clearer head.”

“Which I get, I do!” the elder replied. “It’s just… I already feel so much _guilt_. I don’t want to delay the conclusion to this case. I don’t want any more bodies…”

“But if you’re too mentally exhausted, then your judgement and efficiency are already in jeopardy.”

Gilbert gave a heavy sigh. His satchel went down onto the floor and he moved his phone to the other ear, keys going into the dish on the side table before he went off to the kitchen. He subconsciously decided to have a glass of water before he went for anything stronger. His throat felt a bit dry. Tight.

But even so, he found himself saying: “We could do Thursday, maybe.” That ‘maybe’ meant he didn’t have to commit, then.

“Alright. And would you be bringing anyone with you?”

“No.”

_I said that a bit quickly._

A brief silence fell between them all the same.

“Roderich and Eliza have been asking questions, you know,” Ludwig said at some point. Gilbert rolled his eyes, but kept quiet. “They haven’t really heard from you, and I try not to share information with them because I don’t know what you do and don’t want them to know…”

“You’re talking about Toni, huh?”

“To be specific, yes.”

“Yeah… They can keep their noses out of it,” Gilbert concluded. He finished off the first glass of water and began to pour himself a second glass from the tap using his one free hand. “I haven't told them anything, and I don’t see why they think they need to know. They’re hardly the most open and public people themselves! I mean, we didn’t even know _they_ were _dating_ until they announced their fucking engagement six months back!”

Was Gilbert still bitter about that fact? Yes. Yes, he was. For several reasons. Ludwig knew it undoubtedly. Whether or not his cousin-and-their-fiancé knew it or not was a matter he cared much less about.

“I know. But would you at least consider visiting, if not for them, then for yourself?” the younger brother asked him. 

Gilbert lightly clenched his door and said after a two beats: “I’ll think about it. I’ll get back to you—”

“Good.”

“—but don’t expect the final answer to be ‘yes’. We’re busy people.”

In that precise moment, a door opened from down the hall. Antonio was home. He looked in the direction of the bedroom as his boyfriend ( _fucking Roderich, fucking_ _Erzsébet_ —) emerged, and only partly acknowledged that he seemed to be already nice and cosy in a robe (presumably with his pyjamas on as well, and _damn_ , Gilbert felt a small yawn coming on…). Antonio came to stand where the hallway met the main room near the kitchen, leaning on the wall as he smiled. Gilbert would have returned the gesture had Ludwig not still been talking away in his ear.

“...nd I won’t say anything to Roderich until you’ve made your final choice. Just let me know. We’ll say Thursday for the minute and keep it in mind. Is that alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. I’ll let you know in the next couple of days.”

A pause. Gilbert glanced back to Antonio, who had started to walk into the kitchen area. He was still smiling, almost waiting for the other to hurry up and get off the phone. _Relatable_. Gilbert pulled a face as Ludwig spoke for a little humor, and Antonio hid a laugh behind his hand, which in turn nearly made Gilbert laugh as well. As much as he loved his brother…

“...eak to you soon. Best of luck with work, Gil.”

“Yeah, thanks, Lud. I’ll catch you soon.”

A ‘bye’ followed by another ‘bye’ in a not-as-deep voice (puberty had hit Ludwig harder than anyone had anticipated, all those years ago) marked the end of the conversation. Gilbert ended the call and set his phone down, inhaling and letting out a large breath of relief. _Finally_. He was tempted to turn his phone off for the next few hours, but with that niggling thought at the back of his mind that something could happen in that time, _someone else could get hurt_ , he decided against it.

He finished off his second glass of water, before he was finally able to turn his attention to Antonio. As he turned around from the sink, he said: “Sorry about that, Ludwig is demanding I visit and you know what he’s like—”

The sight he was met with cut him off.

Not only was Antonio significantly closer (like those angel-monster-things from that show Arthur liked, the ones that moved when you weren’t looking and then killed you), but he was also showing much more skin that he had been thirty seconds before; it turned out there were no pyjamas underneath that robe, which now hung low in the crease of his elbows instead of on his shoulders, barely covering anything. The knot in the bekt was almost fully loose. _Naked, naked, naked—_

He couldn’t get his words out. At first, it was because he was just unable to speak because of the sight before him. Was it too cliché or cheesy to say that Antonio left him speechless? _Ha_. He would have dared to say it aloud, had Antonio not then immediately left him speechless because he was now _kissing_ him. Over. And over. And over. And—

“O-Okay, hold up!” Gilbert said, hands shooting up to stop the other before he continued (even if he was totally _for_ him carrying on). “Before anything else happens…” Antonio was only smiling, bemused. “Mind telling me what all of this is about?”

“What, don’t you want to have a little play?”

“I— I never said that. I asked what this is all about.”

Antonio took a few seconds to presumably think over his answer, green eyes locked with Gilbert’s. It was like a staring competition. What he didn’t realise, however, is that he wasn’t watching Antonio’s hands, and the sudden contact on skin on skin which was most _definitely_ underneath his clothing alarmed Gilbert, who gave a very unflattering squeal. 

“No, no, no,” he said, “no touching ‘til you explain!”

“I’m making up for Thursday night,” was the answer he got. “We never got to have our _fun_.”

“Oh, for—” 

“Unless you don’t want to? I mean, I get it if you don’t, but you’ve been pretty tense and I figured you might want to let out some of that frustration in a… productive way?”

The suggestive grin that accompanied those words warmed Gilbert’s core.

He cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts as quickly as possible, trying to think of what to say, what to do next—but his mind failed him. 

When he thought about it, Ludwig and Antonio were both right. Gilbert needed to wind down, to relax, to let off some steam. Work really had gotten on top of him, and he couldn’t afford to let it defeat him. As tough as things were, he had people who cared for him that wanted him to be alright, just as he had people who relied on him that he couldn’t let down because he wasn’t looking after himself as well. 

So, rather than saying no, rather than suggesting they wait, rather than going to the fridge and getting a beer as he had planned, Gilbert eventually smiled back at Antonio. He kissed him back—just short enough that it teased and promised more was to come. And when Antonio took Gilbert’s hands in his to start leading him back towards the bedroom, Gilbert did not protest in the slightest, allowing himself to go with him so that they could have that fun and push the rest of the world out of their minds, even if only for an evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we have Act I, finito!  
> Act II is 19 chapters in total and boy, is it going to be a roller coaster ride.
> 
> on that note: what are you all thinking so far? suspects? theories? predictions? if you can predict something that'll happen in Act II i'll be super impressed and give you a virtual cookie, hehe <3


	11. Act II - 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Act II begins]
> 
> It's a fresh morning and a fresh day! The couple receive a visitor, have a good chat, enjoy some breakfast, and then get going. 
> 
> Sometimes, there's more to a case than just the investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes yes, two updates in one 24-hour period! make sure to read Act I - 10 before you read this one! time to kick off Act II <3
> 
> tw: food/cooking  
> (pls let me know if i need to add  
> any warnings to any chapters at  
> any point pls & ty)

**_Monday 23rd March. 07:23am._ **

Antonio stood in the kitchen, waiting for the mocha to finish brewing his coffee so he could sit down and wake up with the caffeine hit. Gilbert had gone out for a morning run about half an hour before, and could probably be gone for another half an hour still. It was almost funny, how different the little things in their habits and personalities and traditions were. Antonio needed coffee, Gilbert needed exercise; Gilbert was a morning person, Antonio thrived on his evening-night shifts; Antonio had a severe sweet tooth, Gilbert was addicted to all things savoury. They were little things—inconsequential things. But he loved them, he loved identifying them, and he loved pointing them out.

While he waited, Antonio had his phone in his right hand, flicking through the photos in his camera roll. Or more _specifically_ , a special album in his gallery that was purely dedicated to photos of himself and Gilbert, dating back to when they had first become acquainted through their mutual friend, all the way to a photo taken the day before, when they had gone on an evening walk together through the park and bought some gelato to share. 

Over four years’ worth of memories. Back then, Antonio hadn’t really expected it to get this far, for them to last so long. They’d been set up on a blind date. It actually hadn’t gone that amazingly that first night, and the pair of them had agreed to keep in contact as friends. It was about six months after that first date that they had a _second_ date, after which, they made it official. They hadn’t been apart since. Gilbert was just so… _Gilbert_ , he was so _wonderful_ , so ridiculously amazing and funny and silly and sweet… 

Even back then, their time together had been a little more spread out; Antonio was already working in the ambulances, and Gilbert was working his way through the police department with his ambitions of becoming a detective. Four years on and their love had blossomed. Did he want more? Sometimes. He dreamed of it, he dreamed of a full family life, but with their careers in full swing… 

He locked his phone and set it down, his attention going back to the mocha on the stove. From the cupboard he retrieved a small cup, which he set down on the kitchen side before he checked the process of his coffee. _Done._ Perfect. He turned off the heat and poured the coffee into the cup for himself, more than ready to get it into his system. _I sound like an addict_ , he told himself, just as he also then reminded himself: _caffeine is a drug, idiot_.

It was a good job he had a day off today. There was no way he would be functioning properly.

Breakfast, in the meantime, was simply going to be some pancakes. He only made them on occasion, but they were heavenly with fruits and conserves, and Gilbert saw them as a treat as well (though, Antonio had already made sure Gilbert had had a pancake before his run to give him a bit of energy, and he would make sure he ate at least another one before he zoomed off to work). While he enjoyed that first sip of his first coffee of the day, he took the jug of pancake mix he’d made earlier on from the fridge, while also contemplating what he should cook for dinner since he had a whole afternoon to do prep and really make something special. _Hmm_.

He would have spent longer thinking about it had he not been interrupted by the buzzing from the doorbell (they needed to get that damned thing replaced, that noise was an earache). 

It wasn’t Gilbert, that he could say for sure, because he would have had his keys. So that meant, the next most likely candidate at this time of day was—

“Arthur, hi,” he said, greeting the blonde who stood at the front door with a smile, as tired as it probably looked. “I think you’re a bit early—Gilbert’s still out on his run.”

“Ah, right… Sorry,” the blonde said meekly. He glanced at the watch on his right wrist as though to confirm the time and he muttered a ‘bollocks’ under his breath. “Sorry,” he repeated, “I thought he’d be back by now.”

“He usually is. But he set off later than normal, and he’s very particular about getting at least forty minutes done,” Antonio explained to him. “It’s fine, though, he shouldn’t be too much longer. Come on in, I’ll make you a drink if you like. I’m just doing some breakfast.”

“Oh— I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“ _Nonsense_ ,” the brunette interrupted, opening the door wider and making a gesture for Arthur to enter the apartment. “I’ve been warned about your eating habits, mister, and as a qualified medic, you’re not going to escape me that easily.”

That earned a laugh from the other, a tut, and an: “Alright then, _mother_ ,” as Arthur obliged and walked over the threshold.

Antonio closed the door behind him and invited Arthur to walk on through to the kitchen and to take a seat on one of the stools. It wasn’t often that the other came over like this, so he wanted to try and help him feel as comfortable as possible for someone who was a bit more… socially awkward. “I’m making pancakes, if that’s good with you?”

“That’s a serious kind of breakfast.”

“Sundays are treat days,” Antonio said with a light shrug. “I don’t mind doing a little extra work for something that’ll see me through for longer.”

“Well, if you really are sure you don’t mind, then I suppose one pancake wouldn’t hurt.”

“Good! And did you want a drink? We’ve got coffee, tea—green or breakfast—fruit juice…?”

“A tea, if it’s no bother.”

“No bother at all, I’ll get on it,” he nodded with a smile.

Antonio filled up the kettle and set the water boiling as he fished out the tea. Arthur confirmed that he would have a breakfast tea because he, like Antonio, required caffeine to get him started in the morning. In the meantime, Antonio turned on one of the stove rings to reheat the pan from earlier on, spreading a tiny amount of oil in the pan with a brush before he started to make some of the pancakes up. He grabbed a plate and some foil to keep the cooked pancakes hot while he worked. And at the same time, he also did his best to make conversation and entertain his company.

“So,” the brunette said in his first attempt to kill the silence, “how are you finding the city? Have you gotten used to it yet?” 

Arthur made an unsure noise, a sort of drawled out _‘ehh’_. “I’m not sure if I’m used to it, as such. I’m still learning things, still learning how to get around, all the little details,” he remarked as he leaned on the kitchen counter, “but I do like being here. It’s different from where I was before, but in a good way—I think I’ll get used to it soon enough.”

“Aw, well I’m glad, at least. Moving isn’t always easy,” Antonio said as he flipped the first pancake, sparing the detective a glance over his shoulder, “but when you find the right place where you just feel at ease, in _harmony_ with the world around you… Then you know it’s where you’re meant to be.”

“You… sound like you’re talking from experience.”

“I moved here from Spain, didn’t I?” Antonio responded. “That was the first move I ever made, and it was pretty big. It took three more moves after that before I came here and finally felt at home.”

The other slowly nodded, thinking something over, before he said: “I didn’t realise you moved here from Spain. As in—I thought maybe you were born here.”

“Nah, got dragged across the Atlantic with Hen when I was six.”

“Yikes, they dragged you across all that ocean? Must have been cold,” he said. The humour wasn’t lost on Antonio, who hummed and smiled. The first pancake went onto the plate, the kettle stopped boiling, and Antonio poured the boiling water into the cup with the tea bag. “Why leave Spain, though? Such a beautiful country. I don’t see why your family would want to trade it for this.”

“Ah, well—” Antonio set the cup down in front of Arthur, before he also grabbed a teaspoon and the milk from the fridge to give hima s well (he didn’t know how he drank his tea, so he was hardly going to dictate that for him. “We would have stayed, but my dad picked up work.” He gave a light sigh as he poured out the mix for pancake number two. “That’s how it always seems to start, doesn’t it? The family has to move because the dad gets a job, and everything goes to shit from there…”

“Do you think your life has gone to shit? I think you’ve done well for yourself, though, I _am_ an outsider looking in,” Arthur said, his eyes shifting from where he stirred the tea bag around in the cup, up towards Antonio across the kitchen. 

That… That was a fair point. Antonio _did_ have it good, he _had_ done well for himself. But the road between being a six-year-old living in Andalucía to being an eighteen-year-old in the States getting ready to start studying at college in a different state to the one his family lived in had been a tough one. By that time, Henrique had already gone to start college elsewhere, leaving Antonio alone. So he had followed in his brother’s footsteps and gotten out of there as fast as possible… 

Life now was the best life he could have asked for. Life back then was… very different.

He said as much to Arthur: “It went to shit for a while, but you’re right—it’s much better now. Living my best life,” he smiled with all the joy that that current life gave him. “I found my place, I found where I was meant to be. I was just lucky in that I also found the right person to be with at the same time.”

“A happy ending,” Arthur smiled in turn. “It’s good that you two found each other. Talk about a power couple.”

“We try!”

“It’s sweet, really. He doesn’t talk much about you, but when he does, it’s so clear how much he cares about you,” the blonde stated. He removed the teabag and put it into a newly provided dish, and then went about opening the milk to pour into the cup. “I think you bagged a good’un there.”

Antonio couldn’t have agreed more. Though, he was a little surprised to hear that Gilbert didn’t talk about him much. Maybe that shouldn’t have hit him in the face the way it did; it was work, and Antonio hardly went around the hospital and ambulance station ranting and raving about his dearly beloved… But come to think of it, how much did Arthur actually know about Antonio? He didn’t know he’d moved there from Spain, he didn’t know who Henrique was or that Antonio had even _had_ a brother up until a few days ago. Should that have upset him? _No_ , he thought, _it shouldn’t_. He knew Arthur had hardly meant to say it out of any kind of malice, but… maybe it was something he needed to speak to Gilbert about…?

Really, when he thought about it, even though his knowledge was minimal, Antonio was fairly sure that Arthur knew more about him than he did about Arthur. For a second, that made him feel a little uncomfortable. He'd basically invited a stranger in for breakfast… _No, don't be fucking_ stupid _Antonio, he isn't a stranger._ If Antonio didn’t know that much about him, it was his own fault because he didn’t make the effort to get to know Gilbert’s friends—his work partner, for Christ’s sake! He couldn't blame Arthur for his own failure to communicate and try to get to know him, could he?

So he had a solution, and he was just about to elaborate on this idea with the other when Arthur alerted him to the fact that he probably needed to flip the pancake before it burned.

“Oh, _pendejo_ —” Antonio grabbed the spatula and flipped the pancake. It was a little more brown than he would have liked, but he could still eat it, no issue. “Thanks for reminding me,” he said to Arthur in the meantime. “Last thing I need is to start a fire!”

“If you did, we’d have all of the emergency services on site pretty quick,” Arthur replied in jest, snorting softly in laughter as he lifted his cup to take a drink. Antonio laughed with him; the police and paramedics were already there, after all. 

“Still, I don't want to destroy our apartment for a pancake." Antonio checked the pancake he had flipped and promptly removed it from the pan, replacing it with more mixture. "Anyway, so, I was thinking—"

And then a different interruption came in the form of Gilbert, coming back through the front door, looking a little out of breath and hot ( _ahem_ ) and bothered. _Impeccable timing_. Antonio greeted Gilbert with a little and a smile as he came into the living area, and then he watched as Gilbert suddenly realised that Arthur was there as well and he glanced down at the state he was in, then back to Arthur, then to Antonio, then to Arthur again. Then he smacked a grin onto his face.

_I'm in love with a clown…_

* * *

**_07:38am._ **

Gilbert finally arrived back at the apartment complex and stopped his run. He checked the time on his watch as he bent over, hands on knees, as he tried to catch his breath. It had been a good run. A bit shorter than he would have liked, but the later start meant that he was at risk of being late to work, and that was the last thing he wanted. The whole point of exercising was to wake him up, get him ready for the day.

Which reminded him, Arthur was swinging by at some point to pick him up and give him a lift to work. _Better not waste any more time_.

Taking a deep and cool breath, Gilbert hurried on up towards his apartment again. From his pocket, he took out his keys and let himself in, simultaneously making a game plan for the day in his head ( _shower, coffee, pancake, go to work, check out current lead, hope the lead does not fall through; if it does, start the entire fucking investigation all over again_ ). He and Arthur had spent Saturday making a list of people connected in some way to Kiku that could have had some motive. They also profiled some local known criminals, in case these were random and just very unlucky killings. They had two people to visit that day and he just hoped, _prayed_ , that another door would open up for them.

As he entered the apartment, he could hear the distant sizzle of oil in a pan and the warm bready smell of cooking pancakes. Gilbert put his keys on the side table as always and walked on through to the kitchen, wondering if Antonio had gotten tired of waiting for him to come back (oops). But when he saw Antonio, was greeted by a smile and a wave and then— _Arthur_. Had he seen his partner’s car out front and just not realised? _Shit_.

He realised he probably looked like a wreck after his morning run (he became suddenly conscious as well that he might smell, and that wearing black clothes for his runs was definitely the best decision he had ever made). And here was Arthur, already clean and dressed and more or less ready for work. _Talk about putting me to shame_. Gilbert looked back to Arthur, then to Antonio, then to Arthur and he gave a light huff, slapping a smile onto his own face for the both of them. 

“I think I’m gonna go have a quick shower, clean off. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be out,” he said, though he told himself that maybe it would be fifteen minutes, not that they would tell him off or mind deep down. “Save a couple pancakes for me, yeah?”

“Sure thing,” Antonio replied, turning back to the stove and the pancake he was currently cooking. “You want a coffee, too?”

“Uh, _nahh_ , I’ll live. See you both in a bit,” Gilbert shook his head. He went off towards the bedroom and its lovely en-suite, though before he disappeared around the corner, he had a single warning for the pair of them: “Play nice and no murdering each other!”

Arthur laughed and only told him to shut the fuck up and have that shower already, and Antonio reminded him of the Hippocratic oath he had taken with a laugh of his own. _Well, glad to know they’re all buddy-buddy, at least._

The shower was hot. Steam rolled up the transparent walls and the grey tiles, and he breathed it in as he felt his muscles relaxing. He had needed that run. He had needed that escape. He used to go every morning before his promotion; now he did it simply when he could. It got his mind ready. It got his brain cells pumping. Even while he scrubbed himself clean with shower gel scented like the fresh ocean (apparently; Antonio made some curious choices) Gilbert was making those very cells work.

 _Suspects_ , he told himself as bubbles and foam formed on his skin and was washed away by the merciless water stream, _Honda isn't fully written off for the minute. Someone we're visiting today has had two assault charges and, funnily enough, is related to one of the guys in admin. The other person is someone who posted a malicious threat against Honda's surgery a couple months back, previous drunk and disorderly._ The links seemed too thin and fragile. But Basch had put his foot down and told them to investigate every line of inquiry, no matter how thin or fragile, or _so God help them…_

He finished his shower feeling both satisfied and anxious about the day ahead. As he dried himself off, Gilbert couldn't help but remind himself that two people were dead, and they seemed to be getting abso-fucking-lutely _nowhere._ As he rummaged in the closet for clothes to wear, towel tied around his waist, he also reminded himself that they needed to work quicker and smarter before a third body showed up.

Annikki's autopsy had confirmed that Yao had died from hypoxia as caused by a morphine overdose. The slit on his wrists were for show, nothing more. _They aren't even that deep_ , she had told them the day before when going over her reports with the detectives; _so whatever our guy is up to, he seems to want to have a bit of fun while doing it._

And then there were those damned symbols. What were they? _Why_ were they? All those curves and lines and squiggles and markings that just made no sense. He had asked around the station—nothing. Gilbert had had half a mind to ask the Internet, but Arthur had advised him that sharing photos like that associated with an active case was not so wise. Gilbert had quickly agreed.

 _Morphine. Markings._ _Mystery_.

And _then_ there was the lack of a mobile phone. Yao’s pockets had been completely emptied and a search of the surrounding area had brought up nothing. Which meant they couldn’t even be sure where he had been headed, or who he had spoken to. Accessing his work computer had been just as pointless and effort on that front… 

Gilbert sighed to himself as he started to get dressed, his towel already back to hanging up on the railing in the bathroom. He would have to speak to Honda and Katsaros again at some point, maybe ask them if the symbols meant anything to them—Honda especially. Gilbert still felt so incredibly sorry for him. He was living a nightmare, people falling all around him. He didn't really want to bother him and make it worse, but at the same time, he really needed to get to the bottom of all of this…

Fourteen minutes after he had gone for his shower, the German detective emerged from the bedroom at last, and returned to where the others were still lurking. They were talking fairly animatedly amongst themselves, a plate and a pancake sat in front of Arthur, and Antonio on the other side of the same counter, plucking the stems from strawberries and popping them into his mouth. They didn't notice Gilbert right away.

"...nclusion, yeah, life was pretty shit growing up. Had to get some therapy and some help for anger management, but it paid off in the end. I feel a lot better now."

"That's good, I'm glad. As I said: you seem like you're in a very happy place. I'm proud of you for making it this far."

Gilbert let them exchange smiles ( _Jesus Christ, they really_ are _buddy buddy, holy fuck_ —) before he came all the way into the room, his footsteps being heard. Arthur turned his gaze to Gilbert and extended his smile to the albino, which in turn caused Antonio to turn around fully and do the same.

"That's a lot better," the brunette remarked, looking Gilbert up and down; "now you look ready for work. Not so sweaty and… _stinky_."

"Loving your honesty, Toni, thank you so much," Gilbert responded with a soft snort. He moved into the kitchen, shoes tapping on the tile floor with each step, and made a bee-line for the plate of pancakes that Antonio had started to stack. Though, as he tried to pinch one, a spatula smacked his hand. Gilbert gasped an “Ow! Rude!”

Antonio raised an eyebrow at him, the offensive spatula going back to the pan. “It’s also rude to help yourself when we have a guest,” the brunette chided. “If you are ready for breakfast, then you can grab a couple plates and sit down. Arthur’s eating, too.”

“Ah, you managed to convince him to actually eat and not hold out until dinner?”

“Wait— You don’t eat lunch either?!”

Gilbert laughed to himself as Antonio began to ramble on about all of the reasons why skipping breakfast and lunch was a terrible idea. He got the plates from the cupboard in the meantime, set them down on the table, and then did a quick rummage in the cupboard for the new jar of raspberry jam, the chocolate spread, the honey and the lemon juice. The sugar was already in its jar next to the kettle. Arthur was already trying to defend himself (his crimes) when Gilbert was placing the condiments onto the counter.

“...ave no appetite, then I’m not going to eat! Murder puts you off your food, you know!”

“So does delivering babies, or protruding bones, or projectile vomiting,” Antonio reasoned in the meantime, a hand on hip as the spatula was waved in front of him like an extra limb, accusatory, aggressive. Gilbert set his hands on Antonio’s shoulders and altered him to the final pancake that was still in the pan, which he promptly returned to, but he wasn’t finished telling Arthur off: “The thing is,” he said, “I still manage to eat three decent meals a day, or I at least have a snack if I don’t have that much time.”

“I…”

It’s really not that hard, mister. If I can do it, so can you. Does that make sense?”

“No,” Arthur replied; “the fact that you can still stomach food after projectile vomiting makes literally no sense whatsoever.”

“To be fair, he does see a fair amount of shit while on shift,” Gilbert remarked—and sometimes, it was _literal shit_. 

But he knew Antonio well enough to know that just because he ate does not mean he always did so with great joy or enthusiasm; he did it for the objective reason of making sure he had the energy and bodily function to carry out his job. 

Arthur should take a leaf out of Toni’s book, come to think of it. Tea and lemonade hardly counted as sufficient—let alone _healthy_ —sustenance. 

The last pancake (of those that Antonio would cook up for now) was plated with the rest. The deadly spatula was tossed haphazardly in the sink and the pan followed with it (though the pan was more delicately placed, rather than thrown, to Gilbert’s relief). The three of them gathered around the kitchen counter, with Arthur and Gilbert sitting on the stools on one side, and Antonio seemingly content with standing up on the opposite side.

They all began to eat with little hesitation (because Antonio was now actively policing them; Gilbert was more than happy to eat,, and he was sure that Arthur had gotten the memo that he wouldn’t be leaving until he had eaten something, too). Chatter slowly bloomed and they spoke a bit about what the plan for the day was—namely, checking out some suspects.

“Not literally checking them out, I hope,” Antonio said in response to Gilbert’s words. “I might take offense.”

“As if I would. I already told you—in-house healthcare,” Gilbert threw back at him, and the pair gave a quiet laugh between themselves. _Handcuffs._ Gilbert was glad that Arthur was none the wiser to the joke, of course. He turned to his (work) partner: “Anywho—how are you feeling about today?”

The blonde sighed. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I’m not optimistic at all.”

“...oh?”

“I’m just not convinced that these so-called suspects quite fit what we’re looking for. It’s like we haven’t gotten a full picture… It’s like we’re _missing_ something.”

“Like?”

“Like solid connections between our victims? I mean, Honda is a link, but pretty much everyone who knows him loves him and appreciates his work,” Arthur rattled on. Gilbert shared a brief look with Antonio— _he looks as deflated as we feel_ —and then turned back to the other. “And these being random killings… It just doesn’t make sense. Coincidence doesn’t exist. A killer picks their victims based on _something_.”

“I know,” Gilbert responded, now the one sighing. “But we can only work with what we have. For the minute, we can only stick with the leads we’ve been given.”

“It’s just so _frustrating_ … Running around the city like this just doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere!”

“Well, here’s a thought,” Antonio piped up. The detectives both turned their heads to look at him. “If working in the office or out on the streets is simply too stressful, then why not come here after work some time, talk it all over with a drink and some food? I can get out of your way and leave you to work. But a change of environment might seriously help clear your heads.”

“That’s… not a terrible idea,” Gilbert mused. “To be honest.”

“I’m not _completely_ useless, you know.”

“You have your moments.”

“I will lock you out of the apartment so you have to sleep outside tonight.”

“Try me.”

“I have done it before.”

“And you lasted all of twenty minutes before you let me back in, you softie.”

“It was winter. I— I didn’t want you to die from hypothermia.”

“So you _do_ care!”

“Is this seriously how you two flirt?” Arthur said, breaking the chain before Antonio could bite back. “I’d take a dead body any day.”

“Speaking of which,” Gilbert responded, a smile starting to break out on his lips, “we should probably get to work. If you’re that desperate for a dead body, we’ll go and see Annikki today as well, see if she’s found any more information for us.”

“Sounds like a solid plan.”

“In which case,” Antonio added as the detectives began to make a move, "best of luck, today. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

 _If only we had that much confidence in ourselves_...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no investigating this chapter, just some more character exploration. which reminds me - new characters next chapter! woo, finally!
> 
> meanwhile
> 
> can you believe we're already a quarter of the way through? i am... surprised at myself--?


	12. Act II - 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to check in on some of our other characters as well as some new characters as well!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this work is now officially the biggest thing i have ever written at 40K+ words and it feels hella good~

**_Tuesday 24th March. 08:58am._ **

Lukas flipped the sign on the front door of his bookshop so it read ‘open’, and he swiftly returned to his seat behind the counter, a solid wooden stool on which he would remain for the time being, reading his own book. Currently, he was looking into varying branches of magic across different cultures in history and how they differed. He was already familiar enough with those that originated in Scandinavia, but he had to admit, learning about the Ancient Basque witch-cults was a curious thing. 

The Sorginak, as he found out in a different book, supposedly fined those who refused to go to their gatherings (though he assumed that meant they fined other witches; not just any random person, as funny as it would have been).

Okay, so, he was more specifically reading a pseudo-grimoire. A book of spells. He wasn’t actually planning to use it, but he was fascinated by all the information it held, from how to summon varying demons or deities (whether Scandi, Basque or from somewhere completely different again) to how to place a curse upon one’s worst enemy. _Fascinating_.

It was about ten minutes into reading that the bell above the door sounded its charming _ting!_ and Lukas was met by his first customer of the day. To his delight, he was met by Annikki, a good family friend and one of few people he would happily spare his time for. He hid such delight well, all the same, and set down his book on the counter, a black leather bookmark marking his place as he got up onto his feet.

Annikki evidently heard the movement and cast her eyes towards Lukas, who nodded in greeting. “Hiya, Lu!” she beamed as she walked further onto the shop floor. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m alright, thank you. Enjoying the quiet,” he replied. “And you? How’s work?”

“Ahh, work is work. A bit tense at the moment, but I’m surviving,” she reassured him. “I hear things are going pretty well here, though?”

“Yes, they certainly seem to be,” Lukas nodded. He would always be modest about the fact, because as he had said to Mikkel a few days before, it was early days. He didn’t want to jinx anything, or tempt Fate. "I'm lucky in that respect, I suppose. Was there something I can help you with this morning? Only, I thought you would already be in your lab…?"

At that, Annikki gave a sheepish laugh, which quickly eased into a smile. "Yes, actually, there is," she replied. "See, I'm looking for something for the boys. Something fantasy, maybe a little creepy…?" She laughed her warm, sugary laugh again. "I mean, they are boys, and they seem to be getting into the weird and wonderful things."

Weird and wonderful was Lukas' specialty.

He guided her towards some of the shelves towards the front of the store, where books of somewhat more colourful bindings were neatly organised on dark oak planks. While he never planned to market towards children, he had been sure to keep a collection of fairy tales—some in their original forms.

Though, that seemed to be a bit much for Peter and Erland. They were only five and six respectively. The Grimm tales would have to stay on the shelves a bit longer. So he instead reached for a blue-bound book. It was a collection of fairy tales and folk tales specifically from Scandinavia. A little more suited to Annikki's… _angels_ (demons).

He offered her the book to look over as the bell above the door jungled again. The book was received with a smile, and Lukas excused himself to stick his head around the corner and see who it was.

"Emil," he said, voice slightly raised to catch the attention of his younger brother. Lukas hadn't expected to see him, but the kid was carrying one of those cardboard cup holders and he _definitely_ saw two cups, which meant _coffee._

Emil, slightly startled, turned to half-glare at Lukas.

At least the coffee had not been dropped.

"Would it kill you to walk out of a corner and not scare me?" he remarked. His bitter tone may have sounded harsh, but there was little substance to it. Emil gave a sigh as his shoulders lost their tension, Lukas stepping back onto the main store floor. “I, uh, brought coffee. I thought you might want it to get your day started. Caffeine, and all that…”

It reminded Lukas of the mornings they used to have together, when Emil lived with him instead of in the university dorms, and how a quiet conversation over a hot drink saw them bonding. It was thoughtful, considerate—not to say that Emil did not often have his thoughtful and considerate moments, mind you. Emil was a good kid, a good brother. 

A good brother who brought his big brother coffee.

But rather than saying anything like that, Lukas went for: “Good observation. Coffee is definitely a very good idea.”

Nodding (whether in agreement or acceptance, it couldn’t be said), Emil took one of the takeaway cups from the tray and gave it to Lukas. “Here,” he said as he held it out, “straight black coffee.”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

From the corner of books, Annikki soon emerged with the same blue book in hand, a smile on her face. She greeted Emil, who greeted her as well in turn with a small smile (a rarity saved for special people, these days), and then she looked to Lukas, who quickly cottoned on that she was happy with the book and was going to take it. _First sale of the day!_ Lukas wasted little time in moving around to the opposite side of the counter, positioning himself in front of his (beloved) (old timey) (vintage) (aesthetically pleasing) (because it suited his shop so wonderfully) cash register.

"Is there anything else you need from me today, and would you like a bag?" Lukas said as he rang up the book of fables. 

Annikki shook her head and smiled. "I think that's emit for now, thank you. And I'll put it into my handbag so I don't misplace it," the short woman added.

"I don’t believe for a second that you could ever misplace anything, Annikki," the Norwegian stated. He gave her the total and she handed over the cash, which he began to process with a loud _clunk_ from each key he pressed. It was so satisfying. 

"You should see me each morning, then," she said with a hearty laugh. Lukas slid her change towards her on the counter along with a paper receipt as she elaborated: "I'm constantly losing my keys, Linnea has started to police me and make sure I put them on the correct hook every time I walk through the front door."

A small grin cracked out on Lukas' face. "I'm glad she is looking out for you."

"You and me both. I would be quite lost without her," Annikki replied. There was almost a sadness to her smile, but as quickly as it had trickled into her features, it was then magicked away by a change of demeanour. "I'd better run along," she announced with a new bounce in her tone; "something tells me it's going to be a long one, today! I hope the rest of your day goes well and, ah— And you, Emil!" she added, turning to the younger sibling. "I hope your lessons go well, too!"

"Thanks, Annie," Emil responded with a polite and humble nod.

The brother bid her an equally good day and watched in silence as she left, the bell quietly jingling as the door opened and closed. When they were left alone again, Emil moved around to the same side of the counter as Lukas and made himself comfortable on the stool that he kept there. Meaning Lukas was left standing up. (Not that, deep down, he actually minded either way. Emil seemed tired, in all honesty…).

It was actually that thought that prompted Lukas to ask if he was, in fact, okay.

"Just tired," Emil confirmed with only a few seconds of hesitation (he was steadily getting better at sharing things with Lukas, even if they were small things). 

"Is there a good reason for your tiredness?" he questioned as he carefully removed the lid from his hot drink. It still seemed very hot, and Lukas preferred his coffee to be drinkable rather than inside-melting. 

A nod. "Got a group project for one of my modules. It's painful, but it's worth a lot of marks this semester so I can't afford to screw it," Emil said to him. "I'm trying to work my ass off to get as high a grade as possible, but it feels like not everyone else in my group is as bothered as I am. Which _sucks._ "

Lukas gave a hum of understanding. "Have you mentioned this to your professor?"

"He said that _I_ need to speak to my peers if I feel they're letting the side down."

"Useless."

"That's what I said."

"Not to his face, I hope?"

"Just to my phone screen when I read the email," Emil assured him. He definitely seemed to be keeping himself out of any kind of trouble, for now. "I hate group projects so, so much…"

"But you still enjoy what you are studying?"

"Oh, God yeah. Geophysics is my ticket out of the US," the younger confirmed. Lukas had not heard him refer to his degree that way before, but he got it, he understood, he appreciated the sentiment. "I want to go back to Scandinavia. Iceland, maybe. Study the volcanoes there," he remarked. "They're pretty cool, I have to say—I really want to stand at the edge of a vent and look down the conduit for myself."

Lukas was more familiar with a very different kind of conduit (found in the fifth chapter of his current read, if he remembered correctly) but he nonetheless admired his brother's keen passion and his drive. Like Lukas, he knew what he wanted from life, and if Emil wanted to go to live in Iceland to study the volcanoes and stare down vents and conduits (the volcanic kind of conduit, not the demonic kind, haha), then who was he to tell Emil no? That it wasn't reasonable or realistic?

"You'll do it, one day," he promised his younger sibling. 

"You think so?"

"I know so. But first…"

"...first?"

"First," Lukas said, "you need to get those classmates of yours working so they don't screw up this project for you."

That brought a smile to Emil's face.

* * *

**_10:33am_ **

Henrique had forgotten, somehow, that Abel was working. In his head, Abel had been due to start his shift later in the day, but as he had been met with an empty apartment (yes, he had been gifted a spare key, it really was no big deal), it became clear that he had gotten a bit muddled. He didn’t get muddled often. He didn’t _like_ feeling muddled.

There was little point in hanging around. Abel wouldn’t be back until the early evening now (he checked the calendar in the kitchen to be sure; Abel was vigilant and precise in writing his shifts… Henrique took a photo of it this time, for future reference) so he might as well busy himself, try to get some work done, even if things were quiet right now with business. Henrique made sure to nip into the bedroom and reclaim a jacket that he had left behind during his last visit before he left the apartment again.

He would have been lying if he said he weren’t a little disappointed, but all it would take was a phone call later on, the offer of a drink. He’d see Abel that evening if he still felt up to it.

In the meantime, Henrique figured he might as well go for a walk. _Well_ , he had walked to Abel’s place to begin with—that was the beauty of them living so close together. It was only a ten-minute walk each way. Though, Henrique was aware of the work waiting for him when he got home, so… A small detour to add an extra ten minutes onto the walk wouldn’t do too much harm, he figured.

The route he took went from Abel’s apartment building, which was near the river, across the bridge into the East Side. 

Okay, so maybe he would add _fifteen_ minutes to his walk.

Henrique tended to walk the alleys and the small streets, away from the main roads and the traffic and the people. Some would think it weird, or suspicious, or unwise, but he felt he could handle himself. He only ever did such things in broad daylight. 

It was only as he got so far into his atypical walking route that he realised where he was.

 _Crime scene_.

Obviously, it was no longer cordoned off. Most of the information he had regarding the killings had come from a local newspaper (which wasn’t very popular; the unspoken rule was that you never bought it, but read the main headline in passing and shrugged an indifference—or at least, that had been the case until the media had caught whiff of two murders), or his brother. Perhaps that was a small benefit to having Gilbert around. Not for socialising, not for family, but because Henrique got the gossip from his brother, who often lacked a filter after a long day on shift.

Henrique felt sorry for the victims. They were unnamed for the moment—not even Antonio had had that sliver of information buried somewhere in his mind—but that didn’t affect the sympathy they got.

He was standing in the alleyway where, he believed, the second victim had been found. It looked so ordinary, so innocent (or as innocent as an alleyway on the East Side could look). There was litter laying around all over, from old crumpled newspapers, empty cans, what looked like a half-empty bottle of lemonade, wet leaves, someone’s discarded blanket…

It was like a murder had never happened.

Henrique carried on walking and he did not look back. _Gilbert had better know what the fuck he’s doing_ , he thought to himself. _He’d better solving this, and doing it fast_.

* * *

**_11:09am._ **

Gilbert was already looking forward to this day ending. Was that becoming a very common feeling? Yes, he rather supposed it was. It was just— How many times would he and Arthur walk the same lines, around the same areas, ending up back at the very same brick wall? The Honda lead, the Katsaros lead, the useless leads—like that morning, they had visited the places that Sadiq had worked for on the East Side to see if they had security footage from his shifts that could give them some hints. It had turned up nothing of use. Without audio, it just looked like Sadiq had dealt with a consistent line of drunk-and-disorderlies. 

_Nothing_ out of the ordinary.

And still no clues as to what may have linked Yao and Sadiq. 

And, even more, he’d already had to chase off a nosy busy-body who’d wanted to ask what progres they’d made. _Fuck off_ , he’d wanted to say, to the point. Arthur had instead shown some decorum and simply said they had no comments to make.

Gilbert felt useless. Helpless. Basch would soon be on their backs about the media, about control, about progress… and all _he_ wanted to do was go home, crash on the bed, and sleep (or drink; or cry) away his frustration. 

Not that he would ever admit such a thing aloud.

The detectives walked back into the station after their visit to some of the East Side bars. Gilbert was already thinking about them maybe back-tracking, looking at those ex-cons Arthur had listed the other day. And then, the grey, thundering clouds dispersed and a small beam of sunshine appeared in the form of longer blonde hair that had been tied back, a relaxed and tall figure leaning on the counter of the reception desk. Gilbert was almost convinced that he was smiling. He stepped away from Arthur’s side to greet his old friend.

“Long time no see, Frenchie,” the albino remarked, coming to lean an arm on the same counter, his grin only growing as Francis turned to look at him, and his own face lit up with recognition and amicability. 

“Speak for yourself, Allemand,” the blonde replied with a soft chuckle. “I’m in this place often enough, but you never come and say hello. It leaves a man wondering what he ever did wrong…”

Gilbert snorted. “More like what society did wrong. We’re both kept on our toes like that, eh?”

“Very true.”

“Uh, I feel like an introduction is missing?” 

_Oh shit, yeah_. Gilbert mumbled an apology to Arthur, who had joined them to form a triangle in front of the reception desk. “Fran, this is Arthur, my partner,” he quickly said to amend his little discretion, letting Arthur give his own ‘hullo’ and greet the other with a handshake. “Arthur, this is Francis, a defence lawyer. We go back quite a way.”

Francis hummed and smiled. “A whole decade, and then some. University was a fun few years,” he remarked. _That’s certainly one way to think of it, 'a fun few years'. Chaos, more like_ , Gilbert thought to himself in the meantime.

“Ahh, so you guys studied together?”

“We did,” Francis nodded. “Amongst other things. I vaguely remember a lot of debauchery, a lot of drinking…”

“You _were_ the lightweight,” Gilbert said,

“Until it came to the vodka,” the other reminded him, not all that gently. “Vodka really messed you up, if I recall correctly.”

At that, he conceded and confessed: “It still does. That shit is gross.”

“And that is why we stuck to the wine and the—”

“—the wine and the beer, yeah. Man, I miss doing that stuff…”

He missed it a lot, in fact. Graduation had not been the end of their friendship. He and Francis had remained good friends, they had kept in contact, Francis had introduced him to this _wonderful_ person, and up until recently they had all kept up with their social visits and the like. Really, it was just in the last few months that something had gone a little bit… awry…

“How’s Antonio, by the way?”

 _Yeah…_ That was the issue.

“He’s alright,” Gilbert assured him. “Work’s keeping him on his toes, but he still enjoys it. You know what he’s like.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, at least,” Francis smiled in turn.

Gilbert could see there was a little something more hiding in that smile, the way his lips curved in an almost asymmetrical way. He wished he could help, or give him some sort of reassurance, but he knew it was no longer his place. He didn't even really know what the problem was, but even so, it was hard to stand between the pair of them… 

From the other side of the reception desk, one of the administrative team passed over a couple files to Francis, who quickly thanked them for doing that fast for him, and he turned back to Gilbert, a new sort of life in him. 

“I need to get going, unfortunately. I’m due at the Courts,” he stated. “It was lovely to speak to you, even a little bit. We should do it again some time.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Gilbert replied with a reassuring smile. But he couldn’t make any promises.

* * *

**_12:27pm._ **

The journalist closed the driver’s side door of her car and stepped around to the passenger side, grabbing from the seat her pet carrier. Inside was her pet cat (well, her and her husband’s), Alexis, who she was running to the vets for a check up. 

According to her, Alexis had been dry-heaving through the night and had developed a raspy cough. It wasn’t a complete lie—Alexis was still wheezing, the poor thing. But with the unfortunate incident had arisen an opportunity that Renata had been unable to resist. 

So now she walked towards the veterinary clinic on Oakhill street with questions regarding both her cat _and_ the vet in mind.

She wasn’t doing this out of malice, she reminded herself, and not because she needed a scoop or wanted to undermine the police or anything like that. But progress had seemed to be slow, based on the information she had been fed, and she was genuinely worried. This new killer was different, they were unnerving. She couldn’t help but feel something connected the two victims she’d been told of, and so Renata had made it her mission to find out what. 

All she could hope in the meantime was that she could make it home on time, otherwise Oskar would be giving her that god-awful silent treatment over dinner, and she _really_ hated it when he did that…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emil is so me when i have to do group projects at uni lmao, i hate them so much--
> 
> but man, i do love me some side characters. that's almost the full cast formally introduced to us, now! whoo! and yeah, Renata is Czechia and Oskar is Slovakia, just so you know ;)
> 
> i hope you've paid close attention all the while... you never know what is relevant to solving this case :)


	13. Act II - 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to join Alfred, Antonio and Abel on one of their shifts, when they get a very curious call. They don't quite expect what comes (though neither does the patient!).
> 
> It's a good day...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this work has been updated twice today, so make sure you've also read Act II - 2 before this! happy december 7th i guess? <3

**_13:39pm._ **

Today had been a relatively normal day on shift. They had the usual calls, from broken bones, to mountains made out of molehills, to some who had alcohol poisoning from excessive drinking since about nine o'clock that morning (sheesh).

But even though Alfred thought that that was all enough and that the day wasn't going to get much more intense as the trio of paramedics entered their final three hours of work, a serious call came through. Alfred was sitting in the front with Abel (who had insisted on driving purely because he didn't trust Antonio to not make him feel nauseous after eating on break; he wanted his food to stay down) when dispatch got a hold of them. 

"Quick response has requested an ambulance back up," a voice crackled, before providing an address for them which Alfred hurried to put into navigation to make sure they got the right house. "Young woman in serious pain, unable to move. She hasn't let the first responders get close enough to fully diagnose the issue, but they believe it is serious."

"Call-out received by Unit 3A, we're on our way," Alfred responded into the radio; "ETA: five minutes."

"Thank you, Unit 3A, response received. Update us when you have more information."

"Will do, dispatch."

And the sirens began blaring.

How Abel was still such a patient driver (well, composed, perhaps, in that he never showed any frustration or anxiety or road rage on his face when behind the wheel) when they had to drive to such emergencies was a mystery, but Alfred was grateful. As the tall blonde raced them along the avenues towards the suburbs, Alfred turned to speak to Antonio who was in the back, already preparing himself for whatever they could be faced with.

"Got everything you need?" Alfred asked him as the brunette checked the carry bag that he would have to take with him to the property. "Do you need to run a list?"

"All good back here, thanks," Antonio shot back almost immediately. "I have pretty much everything we could need. Chances are we'll have to get the lady to the hospital, no hanging around."

"Alright, cool. This one sounds like a doozy…"

"You can say that again," Abel mumbled from Alfred's left. Alfred glanced at him as he turned back around and faced forward, the ambulance taking another sharp corner as they passed into the suburbs. "I have a funny feeling about this one…"

"You and me both," he concurred.

Three century-sized seconds later, Abel brought the ambulance to a semi-rough stop in front of the address they'd been given. The first response vehicle was parked just ahead on the curb. Alfred was the first to hop out, followed by Abel, with Antonio quickly joining them from the back. A stethoscope hung around the brunette's neck. Alfred took the big pack of medical supplies from him so he could lead the way (he was, after all, still learning things and hesitant to take charge of situations). 

The address itself was a typical suburban family home. It seemed rather grand and well-kept, with some of the greenest grass Alfred had ever seen. _Can't get lawn like that in an apartment_. Well, he probably could, but he didn't exactly feel like laying turf all over the floor of his flat. Imagine the mess!

Antonio rang the doorbell.

It was a good ten second wait before someone opened the door.

"You called for an ambulance," came the statement. Alfred glanced passed the lady who had answered (she seemed flustered, almost panicked) into the house for a brief moment. 

"Yes, yes—" 

The lady let the door hang open and half-ran along the hallway, the paramedics following behind her. They entered a large living room space, where the pained cries of their newest patient suddenly became much more clear. The younger lady that dispatch had told them about (a daughter, perhaps?) was sitting on the sofa, currently working through a breathing exercise with the first responder who had requested their back up.

Alfred didn't want to interfere, so he stayed away a bit so the young lady (early-twenties, he reckoned) had some room to breathe and would feel less cornered. She seemed so terrified, so… _tortured…_

Antonio had already struck up quiet conversation with the first responder, asking for updates, vitals, symptoms—all he got in return was that her state had only seemed to worsen, but she had been unable to describe what her symptoms were and where the pain originated. And in spite of that, the Soaniard had still said, _no worries_ , as if the other guy had just told him he was busy tomorrow afternoon so no, he couldn't meet for a coffee. He was so calm. Like Abel. _Where do I learn how not to panic like that…?_

Alfred's help was soon needed. Antonio asked him to check the woman's pulse while the first responder was sent on his way and thanked for his help so far (he didn't seem to mind, the guy seemed as alarmed as Alfred felt), while he himself was doing other checks.

Most notably, he was staring at her eyes. Then he did a light response pupil test. "Constricting as normal," he said, shining a small light into her eyes again just to be sure. Even if he was satisfied by that tiny diagnosis, he took another few seconds to stare, before continuing. "Abel, we're going to need a bit of morphine, ease some of this pain so she can move. I want to get her to the hospital."

Abel nodded and scampered off to the ambulance to get the morphine vials, while Alfred provided a simple, _elevated heart rate_ , to which Antonio gave a quiet huff. 

"Is she okay…?"

Only Alfred moved to look at the lady who had opened the door for them. He swallowed, but his throat still felt slightly dry. "We can't say just yet," he replied, wishing ( _always_ wishing) they had the answer immediately. "We're going to make sure the pain goes away, and we'll take her to the ER. They'll be able to help."

The woman could only nod, resigned.

"What is your daughter's name, ma'am?"

"She's my niece," the woman amended. A small wistful smile broke out on her lips. "Though I might as well be her mother. Been looking after her for so long…"

"And I'll bet my life you've always looked out for her."

"Maisie."

"For Maisie," Alfred smiled back at her. 

At that precise moment, a small hope seemed to ignite in both of them. 

And then Antonio interrupted when Antonio told Alfred to cancel that morphine order.

That made no sense. The poor girl was clearly in pain. She needed relief, she needed to be helped to relax and calm down—thought clearly, the confusion on Alfred's face sparked a sudden and seemingly random conversation as Antonio turned back to their patient, her aunt lingering just behind her. 

"Does Maisie have a boyfriend?" he questioned.

The aunt nodded. "A fiancé," she confirmed, "they've been together for two years, nearly. He's very sweet."

"That's good to hear, that's good to hear," Antonio mumbled to himself. Alfred still felt pretty damn lost, especially as Antonio then looked to Maisie herself and asked: "Tell me about you and your fiancé, Maisie. Do you live together? Do you want a family with him?"

 _Why the fuck…?_ Well, of course Alfred could ascertain that Antonio was trying to distract her from her pain. _Okay, but why cancel the morphine?_ At which point Abel reentered the room, but Alfred shared with him the delightful news that the morphine wasn't needed. And that was followed by a loud, pained, half-choked sob that ripped from their patient. Her hands gripped at her thick sweater tight, and she nodded with what seemed like all the energy she had left. Antonio commended her efforts and thanked her. 

Then he turned to his colleagues.

And then he said two very simple words:

"She's pregnant."

 _Record scratch!_ Alfred felt like his mind and heart and lungs were all about to combust. The girl seemed thin as anything, perhaps even slightly anaemic, if he had to be honest. _Exhausted_. Like she hadn't slept for… 

"Look at her symptoms again, Alfred," Antonio said to him however, beginning a quick and improvised (and not-that-well-timed) lesson. "Clear signs of fatigue, her pupils are dilated, elevated heart rate, and I'd say from the way Maisie is holding her jumper that the pain is coming from a certain area." He turned to the aunt again, who seemed to be in shock. But it didn't stop him from asking: "Was she complaining of any pains earlier today that you know of? Or even yesterday?"

"She… Sh-she said she had a sore back," the woman responded with a weak nod. Abel was quick to move and requested that she sat down, just in case, ready to help her if it was needed. "She thought it was from work. They make her carry some heavy boxes, sometimes…"

"Then I imagine that was a strong sign of the pelvis shifting," the brunette said. "I'm assuming no one was aware of the pregnancy…?"

Maisie shook her head and sonbed a bit, sniffling messily as she tried to calm herself down enogh to say: "Th-they said I-I— I c-couldn't…"

"The doctors said you couldn't give birth?"

She nodded.

"Alright," Antonio mumbled, to himself it seemed. He moved carefully and took one of her hands in his, giving her a look that was both soft and firm at the same time. "We are going to need to confirm whether you are going into labour, or if these are serious contractions. Okay?" he said. "You can either let one of us check, or I can let your aunt do it. But we need to see where the baby is. Okay?"

 _Okay, okay!_ Alfred wished he had a protein bar or something. He had never… Not like this… On shift with these guys, he just… 

The next steps were quickly negotiated. The aunt—Theresa, she had insisted they call her—was requested in the end, which went perfectly respected by the paramedics. Antonio sent Abel back on out to fetch the gurney ready just in case they had to move her, and told Alfred to move away with him while Theresa carried out the very simple and fast check, the girl's long skirt hoisted up into her lap.

The way her face paled said it all.

"I-I see it…"

That only caused further crying, a low, tired, agonised scream escaping Maisie as she threw her head back. Antonio made it clear that they couldn't give her any morphine now, because it could have effects on the newborn at this stage. He then asked if he was allowed to see for himself where they stood so he could make the most vital decision he would have that day: whether or not they took her in the ambulance.

It took a little soothing between aunt and niece for permission to be granted and consent given. Alfred now moved in and offered Maisie a hand to squeeze as tight as she needed, to help relieve herself, even just a little. It was an offer she did not refuse. He then spoke to her for distraction, introducing himself, asking her about what she had been up to that day so far… 

In retrospect, this really was not exactly what Alfred had expected his Tuesday afternoon to look like. (But then, was any day he was working ever quite what he had expected it to be?).

"This is definitely an ambulance job…"

Alfred looked to Antonio, who had a minor frown etched on his face as he assessed the situation going on. He didn't want to know, he didn't even want to imagine why this woman and her apparent baby were now undeniably in need of the hospital, but he supposed it was his _job_ to know.

" _¿Qué pasa?_ " Alfred therefore asked Antonio, putting his Spanish to good use.

"Nothing too dangerous," was Antonio's perfectly English reply. _Way to kill the subtlety._ "But I think baby's premature. Too small, _tiene frío_. Both mother and child will need the medical attention."

"But the baby is already coming out," Alfred tried to reason in turn, "so wouldn't it be better to try and complete the birth here?"

Antonio shook his head, adamant. "It may have begun, but it might not end that quickly. This is a first-time pregnancy, remember," he responded. That meant labour could go on for a very long time, that the baby might not come out so easily… Maybe Antonio was right… _There's a reason he's the AEMT, idiot_. "Our best bet is to get to the hospital. If delivery happens en route then we can do that, that's fine. But it will be safer for them both to still get to hospital as fast as we can. And we are quicker than the car."

Alfred had not even tried to argue that fact in the end. With both Abel's and the aunt's help, they carefully got Maisie up and got her to the gurney. Antonio told Abel to get into the front and drive, and then took Alfred and Theresa with himself in the cab so that they could do their best with whatever happened in the next ten minutes as they raced back towards the hospital.

The pain seemed to worsen. Maisie started to writhe and had to be calmed down (and partly held down) so that nothing happened to her or the delicate newborn. Alfred's hand was once more offered out to her for support and it was hastily received, Maisie squeezing more than before. But Alfred could take it. She could break his hand and he would still praise her for doing well, for breathing with him, for being brave and facing this. She needed that extra support, even if her aunt was there. She needed to know someone else was there for her and would be a neutral, non-judgemental, understanding party.

She still seemed so scared… 

Alfred couldn’t help but feel sorry for Maisie, as it seemed she genuinely had had no idea that she was pregnant. It was hardly the first time it had happened in history, but it must have been a petrifying thing, nonetheless. _Is that why Antonio asked if she wanted to start a family? To be sure that the baby would be okay, and wanted?_ Not that that meant Maisie wouldn’t suffer with postnatal depression, either…

All the while, Antonio had decided that it was best they tried to get her through this labour even in transit. That was largely why Alfred was doing the breathing exercises with her. _I've never actually helped someone give birth_ , he reminded himself, and not at the best of times. _I've never been there for the actual birth…_ Because he had naturally been trained the basics in this sort of stuff and he'd had to watch the videos and so on, but though he had been there for a few pregnant women here and there during his time in the ambulances, he had never witnessed one of his own patients… _giving birth._

He realised then how much that terrified him, too.

He told Antonio as much, in Spanish again, because he wanted to avoid any extra panic for Maisie and Theresa. " _Nunca he ayudado con una tal situación_ ," he said. ( _God_ , his Spanish sounded and felt so rusty; it even tasted rusty on his tongue). " _Yo no sé qué hacer._ "

" _No pasa na'_ ," was the reply he got in Antonio's much more refined and suave Andalusian voice. His Spanish was so rich and smooth, yet also effortless. _Well, he is a native-speaker, I guess._ " _Vamos aprendiendo siempre, hombre._ Make sure she pushes and breathes steadily and regularly. You control the pace, Alfred," he elaborated, "and I'll make sure the baby comes out safely."

That was all the advice and instruction he could really receive. 

The next seven minutes felt more like Hell than anything else (but thank God for Abel’s steady driving, that was the one miracle they had been blessed with). 

* * *

**_14:18pm._ **

Was Antonio feeling stressed? Yes. 

Mostly because of the baby; he figured the mother would be fine, other than the shock of giving birth given that she hadn’t known she’d been carrying, but the baby seemed to be premature. If not very, then extremely.

Alfred continued to control the pace of the pushing, just as he continued to praise Maisie for her strength and resilience and all the stuff. Honestly, Antonio zoned out that conversation at some point. He was far too focused on his part of the scene, doing his best to help this birth be over and done with fast for the sake of the mother, who was having to endure all of this without painkillers, without the epidural, without the option of the c-section. 

And then, in a sudden, with a single push—

Antonio grabbed a clean towel and a blanket as fast as he was able, hurrying to wrap up the newborn. He couldn’t quite believe that Maisie, a first-time mother, had been able to give birth in transit like that. No meds, no real help. Alfred had not been wrong about her having strength.

The next few minutes seemed to whizz by in a blur: Antonio announced the successful delivery and congratulated Maisie on giving birth to a son; he then let her hold him very carefully, making sure the newborn stayed wrapped and warm (he was premature, as he had predicted, but it was a better scenario than he had been preparing himself for); the ambulance stopped moving and Abel came around to the back, helping Alfred move the gurney (and mother and son) down and out to the ER doctors who were on standby; Antonio was thanked by Theresa, who then thanked the others, before hurrying off to be with her niece and great-nephew; the three of them were able to stop and breathe.

Alfred was the first to speak.

“That was intense,” he stated, his breathing a little more laboured than the others’. Antonio was slightly concerned that he might keel over, so suggested he take a seat on the curb or in the back of the ambulance. Alfred picked the ambulance.

“You did a great job, though,” the brunette assured him in the meantime, smiling at the other. “You kept her calm and kept her pushing. It was a surprisingly straightforward birth, and you helped her through it.”

The blonde nodded slowly, before he set his head in his hands as he now seemed to be calming himself down as well. For as good a paramedic as Alfred was, and for as well as he carried himself in the moment, he was also human. And that meant it was okay to let something like what they had just seen sit a little weirdly inside, and to let it sink in over a fair amount of time. 

It wasn’t just Antonio who had recognised this.

“We’re entitled to a quick break,” Abel remarked, looking between the both of them. “I can go and grab some drinks from the vending machine in the ER, maybe some snacks.”

“That’s a good idea, actually, yeah,” ANtonio nodded along. Maybe getting some sugar in Alfred’s system would do him some good. So he said: “I’ll come with you, give you a hand. Anything you want Alfred?”

Even if he said no, he would get something.

But, to his relief, Alfred lifted his head and nodded and smiled. “I could go for some Coke in all honesty. I need a drink.”

 _Perfect_.

“Perfect,” Antonio nodded and smiled in return. “Give us a couple minutes, okay? And take some time to relax. You did good, remember. That was a tough run.”

The young blonde hummed. “Thanks, Toni…”

Saying no more, Antonio went off with Abel to make the most of the five minutes or so that they had before they would go back out on the road. The vending machine was just around the corner from the main waiting area of the ER, and the pair of them made light conversation (mostly about the private home life, and maybe Henrique, because Antonio liked to be nosy). But he made sure they prioritised Alfred’s drinks (and protein bar) first. 

Antonio volunteered himself to take the Coke, a bottle of water and the snack back to the ambulance so Alfred wasn’t left waiting too long. He handed his own order over ( _just some water is fine for me, I think, thanks_ ) and reassured him that _yes, I’ll give you the money back!_ before Abel said he may be a couple extra minutes, which was fine, and then Antonio continued on his way, goods split between both of his hands. 

_There’s only two hours left to go_ , he reminded himself as he walked, the words sending a faint wave of relief and finality through his system. _Not even two hours, really_.

As he passed through the ER waiting room, he saw Theresa standing around, searching for something—and then they locked eyes and he mustered up a warm smile for her. She still seemed tired, a little spent, but happy no doubt for the safety of her family.

“I just wanted to tell you all,” she said as he approached, “before I couldn’t find you again—thank you. Again. And that Maisie is very grateful.”

“I’m just happy that she’s well and we were able to help. And that she gave birth to a rather healthy son, considering the situation.”

The woman seemed to agree, her gentle blue eyes almost lighting up. “She’s already named him.”

“Oh?”

“Alfred, after your friend.”

Now that sent a funny warm tingle right to Antonio’s heart. “That will make him extremely happy and proud,” he replied. “You can tell him yourself if you like, he’s just outside—”

“Oh, no, it’s fine—I need to run, I told Maisie I wouldn’t be long, she’s still in a bit of a state, but she wanted you all to know.”

Antonio nodded in understanding. “Give her our best wishes, in that case. I’m sure she’ll make a great parent.”

Theresa thanked him again before they parted ways. Antonio watched her go for a few seconds, still caught up in the pride he felt of Alfred (that was, _his_ Alfred). And then, as the older woman vanished around the corner, Antonio turned and carried on back to his own charge, sure that this new piece of news would be enough to see Alfred through the rest of the day with no trouble. He couldn’t wait to see the look on his face. Alfred would be overjoyed. He would be ecstatic.

Moving the bottles into one arm so he could open the door to the ambulance cab, Antonio got ready to make the announcement to the unsuspecting blonde. 

But when he opened the door and Alfred fell into view, Antonio did not say hello, he did not present the drinks, and he did not say, _guess what? The baby’s been named after you_. Instead, in a very puzzled tone, all he said was:

“Are you rummaging in the cabinet for any particular reason?”

“Ah, shit— I—” Alfred turned, caught off guard. A sheepish smile was thrown on his face. “You made me jump! I was just, uh, looking for some paracetamol or something. My head is _killing_ me!"

Antonio gave a soft laugh, setting down the goods on one of the seats. “Alright, well, in that case, this next piece of news might just knock you unconscious.”

“Oh…?”

“Yeah, so take a seat! Basically, I bumped into Theresa on my way back out, and she told me this wonderful thing…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have i successfully given you paranoia yet? do you feel anxious about what might happen? are you worried about why i have just gifted you this somewhat heart-warming and sweet chapter?
> 
> i hope so :)
> 
> side note: were gonna have a short break, just for like two days, because shit is going down for me over here and i have work to do as well as trying not to have a mental breakdown. pls, someone just let it be christmas already, i just want to be back home.. i think i've had my fill of being in Spain for now, and it's all going to shit, and i am so fed up-- ;'l
> 
> but yea, so, i'll see you in a bit anywhos hehe. ciao!


	14. Act II - 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio comes back from shift to an unexpected house guest; Gilbert comes home later and discovers that his boyfriend is an angel; and all the while, a certain city lawyer is feeling very, very worried...

**_Tuesday 24th March. 19:15pm._ **

Home. Home. _Bed_. No, food first, and a shower. Maybe a bath. _Gilbert_.

Antonio breathed in and out and let himself back into the apartment. Gilbert would hopefully be back within the next hour and they could sit down and eat something (like what? No one had cooked, and they hadn’t even discussed dinner that morning… Maybe they could just order something…?), and then they could both crash before Antonio had to crawl out of bed at— No, wait, he had a day shift tomorrow— before _Gilbert_ had to crawl out of bed at an ungodly hour, ready for work.

Not that Antonio wouldn’t wake up with him. It was a simple day, he had finished shift at a good time—six o’clock wasn’t exactly a terrible hour when work started at ten.

The keys went into the bowl as always and Antonio’s shoes followed next, being haphazardly kicked to the side so no one would trip over them. His work bag quickly joined them. And then—

“Oh, Christ on a bike—!"

“ _Qué demonios_ —”

“Antonio! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise you’d be here, or… Coming back while I was here,” Arthur said apologetically. He stood at the end of the hallway, almost exactly where he had stood the other day when Henrique had been there as well.

Antonio felt his heart steadily calming down, a nervous laugh escaping him. “What are you— What are you doing here?” he asked. And then, with a bit more of a hopeful tone as he walked further into his apartment, he added: “Is Gil here with you?”

“‘Fraid not,” Arthur shook his head. Antonio tried not to sigh in disappointment aloud. He didn’t know if he succeeded or not. “I’m just dropping some things off for him on my way home—just some scans he asked for. There was something he was busy with in the office so, uh… Here I am again,” he said with a half-smile, “running his errands.”

“Oh, I see…”

“It’s alright, he shouldn’t be too much longer,” the blonde reassured him. “He said he’d be finished by eight-thirty.”

 _By eight-thirty? And that doesn’t class as ‘too much longer’?_ Really, he was a bit too tired to be too angry or upset by it. He should have been used to it, he really should. But he couldn’t always help that uneasy feeling, that bubbling annoyance, that old dormant flame… _He’s on an important case, he’s stressed out, you should be supporting him_. But it was hard, sometimes. And coming home to find his boyfriend’s partner already in the flat for some reason was an equally sudden shock to the system, even if he was just delivering files that Gilbert had requested.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asked him at some point. Antonio wasn’t sure if he had been standing there for seconds or minutes in silence, just… _thinking_. “You seem a bit… distant. Or not quite here.”

Antonio brushed it off and mustered up a smile for the other to pacify him. _The last thing I need is Arthur telling Gilbert and then Gilbert becoming only more worried._ “It’s just been a long day,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, but it’s also very draining.”

“Emotionally and physically, I imagine,” Arthur concurred, nodding slowly. “I won’t keep you any longer, in that case. You look like you could do with a power nap or something.”

If Henrique had been the one telling him that, Antonio would have repeated that sentence back at him with an attitude, with dripping sarcasm—he wondered how Arthur would have reacted if he _did_ , but of course, barely knowing the guy, it seemed wiser to spare him from the wrath of ‘tired, moody Toni’. So he only hummed and smiled politely as a quiet sort of thank you.

As Arthur headed towards the door, he stopped and started to rummage in his pocket. “I, uh, better give you these, actually—” he said as he finally pulled out a set of keys. Or, more specifically, the spare keys to the apartment. “Gilbert told me they were in the hanging basket outside, so I could let myself in and not need to borrow his own keys and then run back to the office, if you know what I mean. Saved some effort.”

He held them out to Antonio who took them gingerly in his hand, fingers steadily locking around them. The metal felt cold against his skin. He put them in the key bowl and let them sit there with his own keys.

“That’s fine,” Antonio replied in the meantime, “thanks for doing this for him, again. He appreciates the help, whether he says it or not.”

That brought a smile to Arthur’s face at least. “It’s just part of the job. He’s a good person to work with, so I don’t mind running files and paperwork here and there,” he remarked. “This case really has gotten to him. I just… want to help him as much as I can, because I know he’s capable of solving it.”

“Yeah, he is. One smart cookie,” Antonio concurred.

Little more was said between them. Arthur bid him a farewell and a good evening, opening the front door and disappearing through it. Antonio hadn’t the energy to stand there and watch him go, wave him off, so he just closed the door and let himself breathe and calm down.

He still felt tense. Work had been good. He’d received an update on Maisie, who was doing much better now, and young little Alfred (older, bigger Alfred had nearly burst into tears when he’d been told of his new namesake) who was being closely monitored in neonatal. They were well, all-round. No complications, no worries. Antonio couldn’t have been more relieved by the news. And from there, the rest of the day had been relatively less dramatic (though still exhausting) and they had finished work at the decent time of six-forty-five.

That had felt really, very good.

And now he felt a bit deflated again.

God, maybe Arthur was right, maybe a nap wasn’t a bad idea. Gilbert wouldn’t be back for another hour or so (at least), and Antonio didn’t exactly have the stomach for food currently, so there wasn’t really anything else he needed to do, so…

Actually, _yeah_. He _would_ go and lie down, get some shut-eye, chill out. Lives had been saved that day, just as lives had been started. That warranted a power nap. So that was what Antonio was going to let himself indulge in: a _siesta_. Man, did that take him back to his college years, when he managed to squeeze in naps between classes because he’d already had so much caffeine that he had an immense crash. How he had gotten through all his assessments and exams was beyond him. He was pretty sure he’d been an insomniac for most of those years…

His bed was calling him nonetheless, and he was ever the obedient servant to sleep.

* * *

**_20:52pm._ **

_I’m late, I’m late, I’m late_ , that was all Gilbert could think to himself as he got home. He hated late nights at work when he knew the evening was one he didn’t have to spend alone, and he felt awful knowing that Antonio had probably been left wondering when Gilbert would be back. He’d sent a courtesy text to warn him, but that had probably come a bit later than it should have. He was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t exactly been thinking about the brunette when he had been working that afternoon, but was that unfair? Work _was_ work, and he had simply been buried and—

Who was he kidding? Antonio understood. He always did. It was just what their relationship was, and Antonio—the saint that he was—never failed to understand.

The first thing Gilbert did was seek out his personal saint to see if he was hungry, or whether Gilbert should just find something to snack on. A minute later, he found that Antonio was lying on the bedsheets, eyes closed, gently breathing and peacefully dreaming.

An angel rather than a saint.

Gilbert decided it would be best not to disturb him, not yet knowing what sort of day the other had had. Instead, he returned to the kitchen to grab a cold drink, before vacating into his study. The scans that he had asked Arthur for had been, as the Brit had assured him in a quick text, left on his desk. Gilbert would give them a good look over and make some notes ready for tomorrow, before heading to bed himself.

Amongst the scans were photographs of the crime scenes as well as stills from the security footage they had been looking at that morning. He had been able to get a list of names that evening of some of the people that certain establishments had on their barred lists. That was why Gilbert had been working late that day—he’d been waiting for owners to be in their offices so he could talk to them and get names right then and there. With the names, and in some cases, photographs as well, in his possession, Gilbert was trying to ascertain whether or not some of these barred patrons may have turned up while Sadiq had been working and given him grief.

He spent a good twenty minutes working. His bottle emptied and he found that his energy reserves were quickly depleting as well. It was in that half-asleep stupor that he ended up knocking the glass bottle off the desk and onto the floor. Though it didn’t break, it most certainly made a loud noise on the linoleum that made Gilbert flinch. He cursed under his breath and picked the bottle back up, setting it on the far side of his desk, further away from himself to avoid knocking it over again and then— 

The door quietly creaked open.

“Everything alright in here…?”

Gilbert turned around on his swivel chair to look at Antonio, who it appeared he had just woken up, judging by the yawn he was trying to hide behind his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I just…” He gave a sigh, feeling bad about having distrubed him. “I just knocked something off the table. Sorry, schatz. I didn’t mean to wake you up…”

“That’s alright, I shouldn’t really have been sleeping yet anyway,” Antonio replied, “otherwise I’d have woken up too early when I have a normal day shift.”

“Ah, okay, well…” Gilbert mumbled, then huffed, then turned his chair to try and feign concentration on his work. “That’s fair…”

“Hey. Don’t feel bad or anything,” the brunette pushed. He came into the study and Gilbert soon felt arms loosely around him, a head resting on his shoulder. Antonio was warm and toasty and cosy, and _dammit_ , he wanted to go back to bed with him right now… “It’s nice to see you. Now we can do some coupley things together.”

That almost made Gilbert laugh. “Yeah? Like what?” he responded. “Did you have something in mind?”

“ _Well_ , I don’t know about you, but I could go for some of those snuggly cuddles of yours.”

“I see. That doesn’t sound too bad,” Gilbert said, “but what do I get in return for those snuggly cuddles?”

“You tell me. Whatever you want,” Antonio promised him, leaning his head against Gilbert’s for a second, before he pressed a kiss to his temple. “As long as I get my cuddles, I don’t mind.”

“See, now that you mention it, I do have a small favour to ask, if you are up to it and really, genuinely don’t mind…”

“Go on, name your price.”

“Dinner at Ludwig’s on Thursday?”

“Ahh, am I meeting the dreaded in-laws?”

“My cousin and his fiancé.”

“As in… _that_ cousin and his fiancé?”

“Yeah.”

“That doesn’t sound too terrible, I guess,” Antonio responded with a light shrug. “As long as I’ve got you with me, it shouldn’t be too big a deal, right?” Gilbert agreed with him on that. “In which case, I accept your terms. But is there anything you wanna do _tonight_? Other than dish out some snuggly cuddles?”

Gilbert decided that those snuggly cuddles would be perfectly sufficient. He put his documents away before Antonio began to coerce him towards the bedroom, hand in hand, where they quickly got themselves ready for bed. The first one under the duvet was Antonio, but Gilbert was not that far behind. Now that he was in bed, Gilbert’s fatigue seemed to hit him like a brick (or several bricks, at that) and he relaxed easily into the mattress.

This didn’t go unnoticed. 

A hand came up to his hair and fingers began to play with it and he closed his eyes, feeling like he was able to finally relax, let the day’s worth of stress go. Maybe even several days’ worth. 

“Something tells me you’re more in need of cuddles than I am.”

Gilbert (reluctantly) pried open an eye and was met by a small, gentle smile. “We both need them,” he stated rather adamantly. “I’m not the only one who needs them—”

“But you need them _more_ , Mister I’m-A-Badass-Detective-Not-A-Fluffy-Teddy-Bear,” Antonio reiterated, still toying with the other’s hair. “I think you’ve had a rougher day than I have. You need to decompress.”

“Well, what about you? Any traumas today you want to talk about?” Gilbert threw back at him. It was all very well that Antonio wanted to support him and let him decompress, as it were, but what about him? Would Antonio let himself de-stress as well?

A hum came from the other. “It’s been a pretty alright day, to be honest. Draining, but we had a happy moment today, which I think we all needed.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“We delivered a baby while on the road,” Antonio explained to him. Gilbert could see something small light up in his eyes, and then in a weak smile. “I helped bring a child into the world—I saw the miracle of life. Nothing could have ruined my day after that.”

Something about the way he said it just made Gilbert feel good by proxy, like those wondrous feelings were contagious. “That’s really good to hear,” he said in turn, a hand moving out to cup the other’s tanned cheek. Gilbert would have moved to kiss him if he weren’t already far too comfortable to move. “Look at you, being a midwife, bringing little babies into the world…”

“I was hardly the pregnant one, I was literally only there for the last twenty minutes,” Antonio said with a very quiet laugh, clearly trying not to be too loud as they both brought down the energy so that sleep could find them much easier. 

“But it felt good?”

“It felt good,” he confirmed. “Though I think Alfred got the best end of the stick.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, the baby’s been named after him. It was his first full delivery,” he elaborated. Gilbert moved his hand away from his cheek and moved it to rest on his shoulder as Antonio added a notably softer: “I’m proud of him…”

“Well I’m proud of you, too,” Gilbert affirmed, because he was sure the other deserved some recognition there as well (as impressed as he was with Alfred as well deep down). “I’m proud of you every single day you come back from work, because I know you help loads of people, and maybe even save some of them.”

Antonio didn’t say anything in his response. He seemed to need a moment to process the words, his eyes flitting down and his face seemingly to redden ever so slightly. Perhaps Gilbert didn’t say those sorts of things often enough. Maybe Antonio needed those sorts of reminders. _You did turn up home late. Who’s to say he didn’t need you two hours ago to decompress back then, back when it had ended and he needed that initial help?_ Gilbert swallowed down that thick lump and lightly ruffled the other’s hair where Antonio had stopped. He looked back up at Gilbert quite fast after that.

“I love you.”

The words just seemed to burst from the other. _I wish he had a good fucking reason to_.

“I love you, too,” Gilbert said back, nevertheless.

They smiled at each other for a moment, before Antonio then interrupted what had been a very calm and peaceful moment by saying: “Now it’s your turn.”

The detective’s face dropped. “For what?”

“To talk about your day.”

“I don’t— I don’t need to,” Gilbert tried to defend, not wanting to think too much about the case when he was supposed to be resting, doing other things, enjoying the time he had. “Not right now. Please.”

“Alright, so it’s been okay, though? You don’t need to de-stress or anything? And you don’t need those snuggly cuddles?” Antonio pressed. “Because that’s the feeling I got from Arthur earlier on.”

That caused a small jump in his heart rate. “You… saw Arthur?” he questioned, wondering how that had happened, before remembering that he had sent the blonde to the apartment like a little errand-boy. _Fuck me. And fuck Arthur for talking about me behind my back._

“I thought he was a burglar, to be honest,” Antonio mused in the meantime. He breathed in, a natural pause, and then let his breath out. “You’ve been at work for a solid twelve hours though, sweetheart. I know what those sorts of days feel like,” the brunette said, “and I know what effect that has.”

“I—”

“Ah— No. No arguing. You need cuddles, and you’re going to let me give them to you.”

“I… I can’t tell if that’s a promise, a threat, or what.”

“Oh, it’s _definitely_ a threat,” Antonio assured him; “ _Don’t make me tickle you_.”

There was no way in _Hell_ Gilbert would pick tickling over cuddling. Never. 

So what happened next was that Antonio shifted partially onto his back and Gilbert (absolutely, totally, completely _reluctantly_ ) made himself comfortable, tucked against his side with his head leaning against the other’s chest. Antonio’s arms fell securely around him and he continued to feather Gilbert’s light hair with one hand while the other rubbed against his back. Legs became slightly tangled and body warmth was quickly shared between them. It felt comfy. It felt safe. Gilbert’s eyes closed soon after they settled into their positions. At some point or another, Antonio flicked off the bedside lamp. After that, all that came was sleep. 

He was snug as a bug in a rug.

And Antonio had been right: it turned out he had indeed needed it.

* * *

**_21:58pm._ **

“Francis, are you planning on going to bed soon?”

The blonde looked up from the paperwork laid out on the coffee table in front of him. The amber light of the living room lamp caused a slight strain to his eyes and he squinted to see his younger cousin. “I will do, soon, yes,” he promised her. “I just need ten minutes and then I’ll be finished. Sorry if I’ve been keeping you up.”

“You haven’t, don’t worry,” Adelaide told him, which at least made Francis feel a little bit better. “I just wanted to be sure you were okay, and were looking after yourself. Court was a bit intense for you today.”

“It always is, but that is work and that is life,” he deflected, his eyes drifting back down to the work in front of him—none of which was actually relevant to the case he had defended in court (a murder charge he had been able to reduce to man-slaughter based on evidence of domestic violence he had uncovered; it was a matter of self-defence, as violent as it had become). “Ten minutes,” he repeated. “I have an early start tomorrow.”

“Alright, well… I’ll see you in the morning, in that case.”

And with that, Adelaide wished him a good night, and went off to her own room.

Adelaide was a good, sweet girl. She was living with Francis temporarily, getting some work experience in before the real world came at her full-force. She was twenty-one and ambitious. Did she necessarily want to go into the world of lawyers and courtrooms and criminals? Neither of them could be sure, but he could at least appreciate the effort she put into working in the office with Francis (where he made sure she was treated as more than just some intern only useful for coffee-runs).

Whatever she wanted in life, Francis was confident that she could make it happen. She was smart and resilient like that—one very strong little cousin of his, indeed. A true Bonnefoi.

The files in front of him belonged to a variety of cases that Francis had researched in the office following his court appointment, finding himself met with a lot of curiosity about Gilbert’s current case and some extra free time. The cases came from all over the country, from a whole variety of decades, and all with some sorts of similarities with the two murders his old friend was currently faced with. He had already ruled out cases from before 2010—nothing seemed to come even close, which left very recent instances, should the killer be someone who was previously active, or otherwise a copycat.

But that didn’t exactly leave a small pile—it stretched from the West Coast to the Deep South to the Canadian border. It had given him a headache all this researching, it was no wonder that the homicide detectives seemed to be having issues (at least, that was the gossip he had received from the lovely lady on the admin desk who had retrieved those files for him earlier on). And those guys were working with even more information, more documents, more leads—he dreaded to think how they were coping.

Gilbert especially had not always had the best of coping mechanisms, if he recalled all those days at university they had spent together. _I just hope Antonio knows how to look after him. After both of them._

He did not dwell on the thought for too long.

What concerned Francis more was not the detectives, but the citizens who were going around and trying to live their normal, daily lives with this ominous shadow looming over the city.

Two people were already dead.

Francis had worked with enough killers in his time to know that they rarely stopped there. One, for some, was enough. But when you hit two, what was one more murder if it earned you the glorified title of 'serial killer'?

Those detectives would find another body soon. Whoever was doing this, they were getting a taste for it, and they wouldn’t be stopping for now. Not yet. Not until they had that title, and with it, their crown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know i have a funny feeling Francis is right, guys... no idea why, but he just seems to have the right idea about our friendly neighbourhood killer ;)
> 
> also can you tell i love writing Antonio and Gilbert's domestic life yet--
> 
> oh and hi yes so
> 
> story time
> 
> basically
> 
> i lost my passport
> 
> while abroad
> 
> alone
> 
> so guess who spent 3 days holed up in her apartment, because it was a bank holiday weekend and nowhere i needed to contact was open so i was freaking out and panicking and it's all good now finally because i have applied for emergency travel documents and a new passport and fuCK I CAN'T WAIT TO BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS JUST TAKE ME ALREADYYYYYY
> 
> *ahem*
> 
> i'm doing better now :)  
> wouldn't mind some snuggly cuddles myself but covid :')
> 
> damnit 2020--
> 
> in the meantime, i've been planning a radio project for university next year, and have been indulging in my favourtie artist, Unlike Pluto. highly recommend the chap, he and his music is incredible. oh, and more fanfiction - lots of fanfiction (you'll never guess the pairing-- *slapped*)
> 
> *aHEm*
> 
> i hope you have a good thursday anyways :')  
> and thanks for reading! <3


	15. Act II - 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detectives find a curious lead and try to get right on it, finding a couple characters perhaps even more curious than their new trail. Meanwhile, our friendly neighbourhood Alfred visits someone important to him.

**_Thursday 26th March. 06:30am._ **

Gilbert woke up to his phone alarm buzzing and the bed space next to him empty. He rolled over and gave a light stretch, his neck feeling a bit strained from where he likely slept on it funny. _That’s going to give me grief for the rest of the day._ But he had dealt with worse, so he would get by.

It took another five minutes for him to force himself out of the warm safety of the duvet and out into the cooler air. He had an hour and a bit until he would head off to work and make the most of his morning productivity, so he would have a decent breakfast this morning rather than go for a run, and he would also do his best to alleviate that ache in his neck. _If Antonio were here, he could have…_

If it still hurt later on, then Gilbert would ask him later on for the little favour, he resolved.

In the kitchen, Gilbert fixed himself a coffee and found a note on the kitchen side. For a minute, he was worried that it would resemble the one that had been left in his document file by Antonio the other day, given that it was on the same green sticky note, but such worries were quickly qualmed when he saw that, rather than there being something _moderately inappropriate_ (even though he’d definitely read that note again afterwards and smiled to himself when he had a moment alone), it was merely an innocent note.

‘ _Made you some lunch, check the fridge! Hope you have a good day, sunshine! Sending you love and the best of luck for today! See you this evening <3 xxx’ _

It didn’t fail to make Gilbert smile again, in a different way. Antonio, looking out for him as always, making sure he actually ate lunch today because he’d mentioned yesterday how sometimes, he gets too wrapped up in work that he simply forgets… What did he ever do to deserve someone who was that incredibly thoughtful and kind…?

He put the note in the pocket of his jacket so he could carry around that luck with him all day. Was that overly sentimental of him? Yes, yes it was. And he didn’t care.

It also reminded him to send Antonio a text to say both ‘ _thank you for your note, I hope you have a great day too_ ’ as well as a slightly more important: ‘ _be home by four if you can so we can get to Ludwig’s in good time_ ’. Ludwig may have known Antonio and Gilbert well (duh) but that didn’t stop Gilbert from wanting to make an impression on Roderich and Erzsébet. _My cousin-and-his-fiancé._ The prissy-and-the-princess.

( _Warrior Queen, more like_ ).

Gilbert let thoughts about that evening leave him nice and fast.

It was forty minutes later that Gilbert had finished breakfast and the rest of his usual morning routine. Coffee had been drunk, fruit and toast had been eaten, and he had retreated to his study to get a start on work. He was working on profiling, eliminating not just names but personalities, characters; it was vital that they had a good understanding of what sort of person commits the crimes they were investigating. Speaking to people—suspects or not—was about more than just listening, it was also about reading them, their personalities, their behaviour. 

The problem was, it wasn’t an easy thing to do when there was no obvious motive and when so many puzzle pieces were missing. So far, all Gilbert could do was assume it was someone with a lot of mental strengths, who was intelligent, and perhaps a bit self-important. Someone who thought of themselves as superior in some way or another. Certainly with some anger issues or violent tendencies. But even that was not a solid platform for him to walk on. 

Hopefully today would be fruitful. It had been a whole week since Yao’s body had turned up—nearly two since Sadiq had been found—and they basically had nothing to show for it. He hated to say it, but Gilbert felt like a joke…

When Gilbert got to work, the clock above the reception desk told him it was already 07:45am, or thereabouts (analogue clocks always lacked the precision he was so fond of; that was why, when he got to his own desk, he was glad to have his own digital clock to inform him that it was in fact now 07:49am). Arthur was not in their small office yet, it seemed. He was likely on his way, though, having stopped off for a drink or something—he was never far behind Gilbert, morning bird or not.

He set down his files on the desk and logged on to his computer. No more than five seconds later, Arthur walked into the office, a sense of urgency exuding off him. Gilbert was almost completely frozen in alarm.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“New lead,” Arthur replied. It seemed like he’d run there based on how breathless he seemed. “We need to go check it out. Someone came forward—a witness.”

“Okay. Okay, well, take a second to start breathing again before you pass out,” Gilbert suggested, throwing a gesture to the other’s seat. Arthur got the hint and moved to sit down as his partner added: “and then you can tell me which of our two crimes this person witnessed.”

“Uh— They didn’t see the actual… Not quite like that,” the blonde amended, “but they saw Yao the night he died, before he was killed. They say he went into a bar on the East Side, and one of the ones we haven’t yet gone to check out.”

“Was it on our list?”

“Yes.”

 _Bingo._ It was one of the places Sadiq had done shifts at.

“Looks like that is where we’re starting today, in that case,” Gilbert responded. Not even five minutes in the office and they were already on their way. _That note from Antonio that morning must have genuinely given me some good luck_ , he thought as felt over the paper in his pocket, simultaneously praying he hadn’t just jinxed it. “Which bar is it, can I ask? Worth seeing when someone’ll be there so we can visit ideally this morning.”

Arthur fumbled in his own pocket for his notepad, easily flicking it open to his current page. He ran his finger down a list, presumably, and then said: “It’s Russian,” which Gilbert figured was not the name of the bar, but perhaps, an excuse for the pronunciation that followed: “The Matryoshka. I think.”

Based on what little Russian that Gilbert had once been obliged to learn, courtesy of his parents, he was satisfied that Arthur had indeed not butchered that word. “The Russian dolls,” he explained to the other, in case, you know, Arthur was desperate for a translation. “The ones you fill with other dolls, on and on and on.”

“Ahh, _those_ things...” the blonde mumbled quietly, pensive. _I guess the translation was needed after all_. “Funny name for a bar if you ask me.”

“Have to agree with you there, but I’m not going to question it. Not if we’re actually going to be dealing with some Russian guy,” Gilbert replied, shaking his head in distaste. It wasn’t that he was _scared_. Not at all. But why get on the wrong side of someone who could be of great help to the investigation? There was no good in alienating someone who could turn out to be their greatest asset. _So_.

“Apparently there’s usually someone there from around ten,” Arthur remarked after he had spared his notepad another glance. It seemed he’d already done a little digging. _Hang on, did the bastard actually get to work before me today?_ “We can go over then, see what we can find out. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” the German detective nodded. “In the meantime, I just want to go over this profiling stuff I was looking at this morning with you…”

* * *

**_10:12am._ **

The door to the bar closed softly behind him, and Tolys gave a relaxed exhale as he found himself in blissful solitude. There wasn’t too much for him to do before they opened later that afternoon, but he always liked to check stock and finances before everyone else came in so that there was no panic or stress during a shift because they’d run out of a certain kind of liquor. He had dealt with that enough times. If he could avoid it, then Tolys would.

He headed towards the back of the house, the staff area to one side and stock on the other of this small hall. The staff area was his destination.

Inside, Tolys was able to set his things away in his personal locker and access the Business Manager’s computer (there was no official business manager working for the establishment currently, so it was a responsibility that Tolys shared with Ivan, when Ivan was not busy doing other things). He’d probably work solidly until midday. Ivan might stick his head in, he might not—so until then, Tolys was in charge of the empty bar.

Or, that had at least been the plan.

It seemed that this morning would be a little bit different, however.

There was knocking.

At first, he hadn’t been sure what it was, and figured that maybe he had just been hearing something. But then the knocking got louder and Tolys, against his better judgement, did not feel like staying in his seat and ignoring the noise. He got up from his seat at the desk, walked out of the staff room, and then out to the bar area. There was no one around that he could see—not immediately. But then the knocking came again, and he stepped down from the platform area of the bar onto the main floor, where the entrance door came into view.

Stood outside were two men he didn’t recognise, the taller of the two going to knock again before they locked eyes. Tolys didn’t want to say he felt unsettled, but it was safe to say his fight-or-flight responses felt triggered, and he was certainly leaning towards the second option.

_We don’t owe money to anyone, do we?_

It wouldn’t have been the first time such a thought had crossed his mind.

But not knowing what else to do, because he had blatantly been seen, Tolys went to the glass door and flicked open the lock, pushing the door outwards towards the men (he realised in that moment that flaw of an outward-turning door was that it meant that closing it against aggravators was an impossibility, because they could easily stand in the way; at least he would have a chance with an inward-turning door). He tried to smile. It was a bit harder than he wanted it to be.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” the brunette questioned. It turned out he was more or less the same height as the taller of the two, which was a small relief, but he still had this awful feeling…

“Yes, we hope so,” the taller man said. He went to his pocket ( _gun, gun, gun_ ) and pulled out what looked like a badge. Oh, no, it _was_ a badge. A police badge. _Oh, Ivan, what have you done…?_ “My name is Detective Beilschmidt, and this is my partner DI Kirkland. We needed to ask some questions regarding a man who visited this establishment last Wednesday evening.”

Tolys swallowed down the thick bile that seemed to be climbing up his throat. “I see. Well, it’s just me at the minute—I’m not sure when the owner will come…”

“Were you working that night?”

“I’m afraid not,” Tolys replied, and it was sincere. “I have Tuesdays and Wednesdays off.”

“Ah, I see…”

The detectives looked to each other for a moment and seemed to quietly discuss something amongst themselves—too quiet for Tolys to fully understand what they were discussing. And then, seconds later, they turned back towards the brunette, and it was the blonde one who asked him:

“Would you mind answering some other questions while you’re here?”

Tolys figured it wasn't entirely optional. And maybe it would just get them gone quicker.

“That’s fine,” he therefore replied, and he decided to be amicable enough to invite them inside and out of the winds that seemed to be blowing today. Gosh, Tolys couldn’t wait for summer… “What can I help you with?” he went on to ask them as the trio stood in the middle of the main bar area. “I’ll do my best to be of use.”

“Your best is all we ask,” the blonde—Kirk-something—nodded.

Tolys was soon presented with two photographs and he was asked whether or not he recognised either of them. 

“I know this man,” he was able to confirm, at least, pointing at the large photograph that the other detective (Smith? Schmidt?). “Sadiq. He did some work for us a while back, but he came in a bit more often as a customer rather than a worker. He had a friend he used to come with quite a lot—similar build, longer hair…”

_But why do they have a photograph of Sadiq? And this other guy?_

“Alright, well, that helps. Sadiq was killed about two weeks ago—” _Ah, that makes sense._ “—and we are trying to establish what connects these men. Are you sure you don’t recognise the other?”

Tolys cast his eyes again to the other photograph. The man seemed smaller, thinner, maybe a bit older than Sadiq as well… _Two murders, and the police think that this bar could connect them_. He tried to ignore how his heart did a jump, hop and skip, and he could only shake his head again in apology. 

“I’m sorry,” he then said with actual words. “If he were a regular, then I might recognise him, but I don’t recall seeing him in here—certainly not recently.”

But before another word could leave anyone, someone else suddenly joined the conversation. Tolys wondered how he didn’t have an aneurysm, or a full on heart-attack. _Why can’t the world just leave me in peace to work…?_

“Is everything alright here?” a voice that Tolys recognised immediately said.

The entrance door into the bar closed shut behind him. Ivan greeted the trio with a smile, as friendly as he was able to, and he adjusted the scarf around his neck (it seemed the wind had done a number on the poor guy) before he removed it entirely. A crucifix was left hanging around his neck, along with another necklace (a pentagram, which was an interesting choice that Tolys had never questioned). He quickly tucked both under the safety of his top. 

In the meantime, one of the detectives spoke up and asked: “And you are…?”

“I own this bar.”

“Ahh, well, this is very good timing, then,” the taller (paler, possibly German?) detective remarked. He turned to look at Ivan, one of the photographs being swapped out for his badge once more. “Sorry for intruding, but we had some questions and your employee has been helping with our inquiries. Since you’re here, would you mind if we quickly asked you a couple of questions as well?”

Ivan gave a hum. _He seems pretty calm…_ “I don’t see why not. What would you like to know, officers?”

“Most importantly, if you recognise this man.” Schmidt(?) held up the photograph of the other man—the one who wasn’t Sadiq—for Ivan to look at. “A witness said he came in here last Wednesday evening.”

To Tolys’ surprise, Ivan said that actually, yes, he _did_ recognise the man.

“I did not know him well, as he wasn’t a regular here,” the Russian explained, “but I remember seeing him in here last week. Maybe once before. Even then, it was only ever from the other side of the bar.” He gave a pause, looking at the picture again. Tolys couldn’t be sure why—maybe just to be sure it was the right man—but Ivan promptly returned to what he had been saying. “All I can say for sure was that he was supposed to meet someone here, but they never showed up, so he left.”

This seemed to catch with the police officers, at least.

“Do you remember at what time he left this establishment? Or do you perhaps have some cameras that could give us an accurate time?"

"Unfortunately our cameras are not currently working," Ivan explained to them. It was something they had indeed been meaning to get fixed, but there was also the ice-machine, the mini-fridge, the lights that needed replacing in the main bar… “But, from what I can remember, he left at around midnight. Give or take ten minutes,” the Russian pressed on for them. “He only had one drink before he left. Whoever he was meeting never came looking for him that night.”

“And did he mention anything about who he was supposed to be seeing?” Kirk-something pressed. “A name, a description of some sorts?”

At that, Ivan shook his head. “He did not, I’m afraid. But…”

“But…?”

“He did not seem too upset by the fact. I think it was perhaps some blind date, something a friend set up,” the owner suggested, which, in Tolys’ opinion, made some kind of sense. “He left soon after he finished his drink, either way. I wish I could give you more information, detectives…”

“That’s—" The detectives shared a look and a nod. "That’s alright, you’ve been quite helpful, to be honest,” Schmidt assured him. _Thank God_ , Tolys thought in the meantime, _maybe now they will leave!_ “There is a chance we will have to come back with some follow-up enquiries at some point, if that’s no trouble.”

Ivan’s smile seemed to harden, becoming as firm and stable as it had been when he first walked through the door. “It is no trouble at all. We’re always happy to help the police with their work. Please, do not hesitate to stop by if you need to.”

That went very much appreciated, but it seemed that for now that was all they were able to provide them, and the detectives knew it. One of them left their card with contact details ( _ah, so he’s called_ Beil _schmidt_ , Tolys had mused when Ivan had handed the card to him in turn), and thanked them again for their help, before the two of them were left alone in the bar.

Part of Tolys had expected to get straight back to work. Part of him knew that wouldn’t happen right away.

“So,” Ivan said as he locked the door again, “what were they asking you exactly?”

“Just whether I recognised one of those men—the one that they showed you, and also Sadiq,” Tolys replied. He saw no point in telling him anything other than the truth—their relationship was all about trust, after all. “They said, uh…” The bile rose again. “They said Sadiq was dead…”

A silence fell between them for a few seconds out of respect.

“Next time,” Ivan then eventually said, turning around to look at Tolys. His face had softened, as had his smile, “just remember that you don’t have to say anything to them, okay?”

“I know.”

“Okay. That’s fine. Now—” Ivan clapped his hands together, face brightening up: “How are those finances of ours looking?”

* * *

**_16:43pm._ **

The trattoria was relatively quiet as they seemed to be between the lunch and light-dinner services. Alfred was glad for it. 

He walked into the establishment with only a short visit in mind and a reusable takeaway cup already in hand (because, _woo_ , sustainability!). To his delight, Lovino was on his feet behind the counter, seemingly making notes on several pieces of paper. As he approached, it became clear that he was actually revising the current menus. He was half-tempted to offer his taste buds as guinea pigs.

“Hey,” Alfred said, finding it the only way to properly announce his presence. Lovino looked up at him, almost alarmed at the sudden voice, and Alfred smiled at him to avoid laughing outright. “How ya doin’?”

“Not too bad,” the Italian replied as he stood up straight. He seemed better, for sure. “Can I, uh… get you something? Or is that cup part of some new fashion trend?”

“Oh—” The laugh escaped him, this time. “No, definitely not a fashion trend. I mean, how tragic would _that_ be?” Alfred responded. “No, it, uh..." He lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t mind a coffee, but the cup should be emptied first.”

Lovino was somewhat confused by this. Alfred set the cup down on the counter anyway, letting the other pick it up and take off the lid, his curiosity seeming to consume him. Then Lovino put the lid back on the cup much quicker than he had removed it, and he stared at Alfred.

“ _Sei pazzo_ ,” he stated with a frown. The cup looked like a grenade in his hand, like something powerful but terrifying. “You’re absolutely fucking nuts. I can’t take this—”

“Yes,” Alfred interrupted, “you can.”

“And this couldn’t have waited until closing? Or opening?”

“No,” Alfred stated, “it couldn’t.”

“ _Sei pazzo_ ,” Lovino repeated with a huff. “You’re going to take this back. I don’t need your help, nor your pity. You’ve… already done enough for me,” he mumbled, his embarrassment showing in how his lips became slightly pursed and he couldn’t bring himself to meet the other’s gaze anymore.

The blonde gave a light sigh. “If you don’t take them now, then I’ll just have to break into your apartment upstairs and leave them there instead.”

“I would rather—at least there would be no audience.”

Alfred stood up more straight and threw his gaze around the room. There was only one table that had patrons, who looked to be an elderly couple enjoying some soup. He looked back to Lovino.

“Something tells me this isn’t as problematic as you think it is.”

“But—”

“Just take them,” Alfred reiterated, “and hold onto them for now. Use ‘em as like an emergency fund or something, I don’t know. But I can’t take them back.”

It took a few seconds more for Lovino to say anything. In that time, the Italian seemed to be thinking incredibly hard about something. Debating internally. Alfred could understand why, really, but all he wanted to do was help. It wasn’t about pity, just like it hadn’t been when he had helped him before with his injuries. It was just about doing what he could within his power to look out for someone else for the first time in his life.

Yes, he was a paramedic. He helped people day in and day out. 

But this… this felt different. It _was_ different. And he wanted to do whatever he could to get Lovino through whatever was going on in his life right now.

“So, just an americano?” Lovino eventually said, looking back up at Alfred. There was something in his eyes—maybe it was a thank you, maybe it was a _fuck you_ , maybe it was both.

Alfred gave another smile as he nodded. “An americano for the americano,” he said. “ _Yeah_ , that works for me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivan, my man, what u hidin  
> Alfred, my man, what u doin  
> Lovino, my man, what u feelin--
> 
> quick italian translation:  
> sei pazzo = you're nuts/crazy
> 
> i haven't written anything new for this work in a week, how dare my productivity dip this low ):
> 
> but here's a chapter, merry december 14th! it's been just over a month since i started uploading and boi, have we come a long wayyy~ 
> 
> and hey hey i now have an emergency passport, it is bright blue, i love it, and they're going to take it off me when i land in the UK because rules :')
> 
> i'm not sad about it, you are--


	16. Act II - 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert and Antonio go to Ludwig's house to meet the cousin-and-his-fiancé. And what a night it turns out to be!

**_Thursday 26th March. 17:24pm._ **

“I think you should probably stop now, and sit down. They’ll be here soon and you look like you’ve just run a marathon.”

“Who are you kidding? He looks like he’s run at least _three_. One marathon and Ludwig barely breaks a sweat.”

While he appreciated the compliment ( _was_ it a compliment? He never could quite tell when it came to their cousin), Ludwig continued to ignore both Roderich and Erzsébet as he put the finishing touches to the dining room. He had already spent an hour and a half cleaning the house, dusting every single surface, freshening up the upholstery of the dining chairs and the living room sofas, wiping down each window (bedrooms included) and lighting scented candles (as picked out rather helpfully by Liz earlier that day) in each room as he finished with it.

He knew they were only trying to wind him up. He knew they weren’t being serious and that he didn’t actually look as flustered as they made out…

(Though, he still quickly caught his reflection in the mirror hanging on one of the dining room walls to be sure. And, as he had expected, not a single hair was out of place. He bet no one else could clean as intensely as he had and have it not feel like a workout for them. Well… no one besides Gilbert, he supposed. Clearly it was a family skill inherited from their mother.)

“They’ll be here imminently,” Ludwig said as he walked back into the living room, where the others had made themselves more than comfortable on one of the couches. “I just want things to look neat and tidy for them.”

That made Erzsébet make a bemused noise, a melodic and playful, ‘ _oooh…_ ', as a grin broke out on her face. “I wonder who you’re trying to impress,” she remarked. Ludwig had to steel himself so he didn’t roll his eyes too blatantly and let her think she had officially gotten under his skin. She was a good person, but _Jesus Christ_ , did she have her moments. “I hope you’re not trying to steal away your big brother’s _significant other._ ”

He wondered for a second why she hadn’t specified ‘boyfriend’, but then he caught himself and remembered: he hadn’t told them _who_ was coming, only that Gilbert was bringing his partner. Not because _he_ didn’t want to say, but because Gilbert didn't, and then Erzsébet herself had insisted that very morning that he let them guess and leave it as a surprise. A few more hours of waiting would do no harm. Ludwig wondered how surprised they would be when they actually _met_ said ‘significant other’.

Ludwig liked Antonio. He felt he was good for Gilbert, definitely grounding but not too immature or too mature, on the other end of the scale, that it created an imbalance. The pair had known each other for about five years in total now, including the four years they had been an item, which seemed to be a pretty good sign for their relationship, in all fairness. Ludwig had met Antonio for the first time on Gilbert’s birthday, when they had announced that they were, in fact, dating. He’d felt back then he was a good person.

To be honest, it was almost funny, he told himself. Erzsébet and Roderich might know Antonio by name as one of Gilbert’s friends from an off-handed comment in a long-forgotten conversation, but whether they could put the stories to the name to the _face_ would be a whole other matter. Because he knew Gilbert had never disclosed any information to them about who he was with, other than that fact that he was dating _someone_.

Suddenly, Ludwig was looking forward to this even more than before.

Meanwhile, Roderich and Erzsébet had continued to talk over their theories about who Gilbert would be bringing along (though Roderich was notably less interested in the matter, especially compared to Erzsébet). 

He hadn’t seen his cousins in years.

What a way for them all to be reunited…

The doorbell rang. Ludwig’s head zipped towards the front door and one of the dogs ( _B_ _lackie_ ) barked in response. That was his cue. 

Leaving the others to stay in their seats and brace themselves for what was coming, Ludwig walked out of the front room and into the hallway. Blackie, the German Shepherd he had adopted most recently, stood attentively at the door, tongue hanging from his mouth as he looked now eagerly between his owner and the door and back and forth. Ludwig reached down and gave him a light scratch atop his head, before telling him to stand aside so he could open the door. 

He was greeted by a big smile from over Gilbert’s shoulder, and Gilbert’s slightly more reluctant smile. Something told Ludwig that his big brother was actually _nervous_ about this evening. Confident, neutral, fearless Gilbert… _terrified_ of the cousins. 

This would be a very interesting evening indeed.

* * *

**_17:26pm._ **

Gilbert pulled up outside his brother’s house and took a deep breath. A hand fell on his as it clung to the gearstick and he turned his head to look at Antonio.

“There’s still a couple minutes spare to make a sudden getaway and go home and order a takeaway instead,” the brunette said. Gilbert would have gone for it in a heartbeat if he didn’t know that four people—Antonio included—wanted this evening to go ahead regardless. “You shouldn’t feel pressure to see them if you don’t want to.”

_So why is pressure all I feel?_

The Prussian (he made his heritage much more clear and a thing of pride when it came to his family—even if he was only _half-_ Prussian—because Ludwig insisted on focusing on the German half, and Gilbert wanted to show his mother a little bit more respect than that) smiled back at him and assured him that it was fine, that he’d have to do it sooner or later and he would prefer to get it over and done with.

“As long as you’re sure.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

They got out of the car after a few more seconds of just looking at each other (Antonio had been the one to say, _we should probably make a move before someone starts staring at us through the living room window_ , which was a valid argument) and Gilbert led the way to the front door. Antonio had taken the other’s hand as he knocked and had given it a gentle squeeze. Then, the door had opened, the hand was subsequently dropped, and Gilbert was faced with his brother.

There was no backing out now!

“I’m glad you could make it,” Ludwig remarked, stepping aside and inviting the couple in—presumably to reserve the warmth inside the house rather than for any other reason. “I trust you’ve both had a good day.”

“Uhh, yeah,” Gilbert answered for both of them, because Antonio had immediately fixated on Blackie and was busy giving the (incredibly gentle and kind) beast all of his attention in the form of scratchies and cooing and snuggles. _Why did I have to fall in love with such a fucking adorable idiot?_ He tore his gaze away from Antonio and tried not to give himself whiplash in the process. “We both have, actually. Not too hectic. Makes a nice change,” he concluded.

Ludwig gave a hum. “Well, that’s good to hear,” he replied. “You could both probably do with the break.”

“Tell me about it…”

Antonio stood up again, apparently satisfied with all the love and affection he had been dishing out to the German Shepherd, and rejoined the world of the adult humans. He greeted Ludwig properly this time. Ludwig greeted him back and actually _smiled_. Today was becoming a bit of an unusually positive day, Gilbert was almost scared he was dreaming it all up… 

Nevertheless, with those initial pleasantries completed, all that was left to do was go on towards whichever room and say hello to the rest of the clan. At some point, Antonio had slipped his hand back into Gilbert’s again, perhaps sensing it was was needed ( _f_ _ucking... mind-reader_ —), and then, with that, Ludwig guided them on through to the living room.

Gilbert watched as Roderich and Erzsébet both stood up with a suddenness, as though they had forgotten he was coming, or hadn’t even heard him come in, which was _ludicrous._

Still, that didn’t stop him from, uh, _stopping_ in his tracks and sort of just… staring at them. What should he say? It had been literal years since they’d seen each other, and they hadn’t really spoken as much as he felt they should have, and _is that my fault? Should I have made more of an effort?_ Well, yes, yes he should have, to start with. _But so should they, right…?_

Because this wasn't just Roderich and Erzsébet. This was his cousin, standing next to one of his childhood friends. One of his _best_ friends. 

Once upon a time… 

“It's good to see you again, Gil," Liz (she had always _insisted_ they call her that instead of by her full name) greeted. Her smile was as calm and soft yet as bold and daring as it had always been. A rose and its old thorns. "It really has been a long time, huh?"

"Six whole years, by now," he responded with a slow nod, before he let a grin slide smoothly onto his face. "But who's counting? It's, uh— It's good to see you both again, too."

It felt good to see her smile grow in turn. _Still the same Liz._ Still the same person he had known all that time ago.

" _So_ ," she said, killing the silence once more, "are you going to introduce us…?"

Gilbert was suddenly conscious of the hand still in his.

"Oh, shit-cakes—"

"Vulgar as ever," Roderich mumbled to himself.

"—yes, sorry—" Gilbert gave a somewhat nervous laugh and looked at the brunette, who only smiled in encouragement at him. _Tch_. What a dork. "This is Antonio," he said, gaze returning to the others (his face felt warmer than it did five seconds before, _why did his face feel warmer than it did five seconds before?_ ). "Antonio is my… boyfriend. Partner. Either works…?"

"Either suits me fine," Antonio assured him with a gentle nudge. Then he addressed Liz and Roderich himself and Gilbert was pretty damn glad for it. _Why am I being so awkward all of a sudden?!_ "It's a pleasure to meet you both. I've heard some good things—though, I don't think you've heard too much about me in turn…?"

"We've heard things here and there about a 'partner', but, uh…" Roderich's voice trailed off for a second. He seemed to be looking Antonio up and down, as though scrutinising him, and Gilbert felt a little defensiveness flare up in his chest. "I have to admit," the other went on, "you are not quite who I expected to meet."

"In a… good way, I hope?"

Antonio was _definitely_ squeezing Gilbert's hand now for his own sake, for his own comfort. _This was a mistake_ , Gilbert told himself at the same time; _coming here was a huge, astronomical mistake._

"Oh, yes," Roderich assured him. "Not that there was ever necessarily a 'bad way'. At the end of the day, Gilbert seemed happier when he found himself in a relationship. And we have no place judging another person for making someone happy."

The squeezing stopped on one side.

"Well, I suppose that's fair," Antonio mused in response, "but maybe now we can all get to know each other a bit better, any known stories aside."

"That certainly sounds like a good idea."

The squeezing stopped altogether.

_God, how am I going to get through this evening?_

* * *

**_18:43pm._ **

"Anyone would think you're here for them, more than anyone else," Ludwig commented as Antonio stood at the other end of the kitchen, doting over all three of the blonde's pet dogs: Blackie, Aster and Berlitz. 

"Maybe I am," the Spaniard joked in turn. He looked up from where he was eye-level with Aster, who he was busy giving scratchies at the same time. "Maybe I'm just here to steal them from you when you're not looking."

"I'd like to see you try."

"I said when you're _not_ looking, Ludwig."

"Ah, my apologies," he conceded with a chuckle.

It had always felt nice that, once Ludwig had gotten used to him, Antonio had felt that the other was very much warmed to his humour and his personality. Like he could mess around and be a bit less mature, and Ludwig didn't mind.

Perhaps that was just because he was already used to Gilbert…

"Have you two considered getting a pet?" the blonde asked him as Aster was swapped for Berlitz. "They're allowed in your building, aren't they?"

"They are," Antonio nodded, his features soft and pensive, "but I don't think it would be too wise. We barely have time for _each other_ , let alone a pet as well. I don't think it would be the right kind of commitment for us while we're still working like we are…"

A hum came from the other as he continued stirring… whatever it was. "Would you consider trying to change shifts to work only during the day?"

"It's not exactly as easy as that… If I wanted to work during the day only, then I'd most likely have to be looking at a desk job rather than frontline," Antonio explained to him. And that was a career change he never wanted to have to make. The day he left the ambulances, he just knew… It would break him.

"But you two are still happy? Still getting along?"

"Is there a reason they wouldn't be?" Roderich asked as he walked (sauntered) into the kitchen, startling both of them.

Antonio suddenly felt inclined to stand up.

* * *

**_18:45pm._ **

Antonio had gone to help Ludwig in the kitchen, just to finish off the final things for dinner (which was an excuse to go and say hello to the three dogs that Antonio had fallen in love with during their visits, _someone get this guy a puppy_ ), which had left the remaining trio alone in the lounge. Until Roderich had made an excuse to go into the kitchen as well, which had left Erzsébet with Gilbert.

And Gilbert _hated it_.

Because it meant that now she could pester him about his relationship completely, totally, _annoyingly_ unrestrained.

"So."

"So?"

"He's cute."

"Uhuh."

"And polite."

"Mhmm."

"And sexy?"

"We _are_ talking about Antonio and not Roddy, right?"

Liz merely rolled her eyes. " _O_ _bviously,_ " she stated. "You bagged yourself a good one there, _and_ he's Spanish."

"Point being?"

"Uh, hello? _Latin lover?_ You know, the French, the Spanish, the Italians— _the romantics!_ " she pressed, as though his boyfriend's ethnicity really factored into their relationship that heavily. “World’s most passionate lovers, Gil. Best reviews!”

Well, _yeah_ , he was a romantic. And kind. And flirty. And good in bed (though 'good' was perhaps too lazy a word for _that_ ). But anyway—all of that amazing-ness wasn't because he was _Spanish_ , it was because he was Antonio! How shallow of her to think any— any different! 

"His nationality isn't important to me," Gilbert therefore said in return, being as assertive as he could in his tone. "It makes literally no difference. Toni is Toni, he is my partner, and I love him. Why should there be any more to it? He could be American and he’d still be _him_. I mean, what is it—aren't you having enough fun on your own that you have to start sticking your nose in what we do?"

_Slightly more confrontational than necessary, but you do you, Gil. And hope she doesn't just smack you._

Surprisingly, Liz did not smack him, or even scowl. She laughed and said: "Hardly," like it was an obvious fact. _Obviously._ "I'm just curious. He's not the sort of guy I'd ever imagined you being with, but somehow you've stuck together for… how many years was it?"

"Four," he quietly supplied.

"Four years, yes! And still going strong, if I had to go by the way you were looking at each other earlier on," she added with that knowing smirk, before it eased out into a more relaxed and temperate smile. "It's good to see you happy like that. And I just hope he's treating you right, because it's what you deserve."

Gilbert couldn't even think of what to say in response to that. Yes, they were going strong, and yes, he was happy. Antonio did his best day in and day out for Gilbert, and he simply hoped he was doing the same for him. That _he_ was treating _Antonio_ right, because it was what _he_ deserved.

"So, when's the wedding?"

Now _that_ … 

Aha…

Gilbert told her to do one.

* * *

**_19:02pm._ **

Dinner was served. Ludwig sat at the head of the table, with both couples sitting to either side of him. They still all seemed to be getting used to each other again (or, in Antonio's case…).

Did Antonio feel a bit awkward? He supposed so. But it wasn't the worst situation he'd been in, and he knew that the others were making an effort to be all friendly and nice to him and such. He just couldn't really help it. He knew Gilbert held a small resentment. He was merely worried about his boyfriend— _for_ his boyfriend. He was worried that something could set him off, touch his nerves, all because of something someone may say to Antonio or about him. Gilbert was protective like that… 

Though, he had been given the seal of approval by Roderich, who had been delighted when Antonio had said yes to a glass of wine rather than beer. _A man of class and good taste,_ the Austrian had said. _You'd better keep him around, Gilbert_.

At which point Elizabeth (that was what she had told him to call her to save the trouble of her Hungarian name, which, he was embarrassed to admit, had been a huge relief) had warned Antonio that he had a new secret admirer. Gilbert should watch himself.

Talk then briefly turned to the upcoming wedding to be held in Linz. The couple seemed genuinely excited about what was to come and the honeymoon they were currently still planning…

And then the subject flipped back to the other side of the table.

"So what do you do for a living?" Elizabeth asked the Spaniard, who had been halfway to a (rather generous) sip of wine. He stopped himself to provide an answer. 

"I'm a paramedic," he said quite simply. "Ambulance crew."

"A man in uniform, my word—Gilbert, you know how to pick the good ones, don't you?"

"Technically he was a man in uniform as well at one point," Antonio decided to point out, casting a glance to Gilbert, who met his gaze and gave a sheepish smile. He knew what he was thinking. _Handcuffs._ Fuck ( _me, please, officer_ ), the wine was going straight to his head… "We, uh… Well, it can get a bit tough with our working hours, but we get by don't we? We make our time together work?"

Gilbert agreed.

"So then I'm curious," Liz went on. Antonio just wanted to drink. _I sound like an alcoholic, fucking hell._ "How did you two meet?"

_Ah._

"A mutual friend," Antonio told her. He wasn't going to go into too many details, but: "I was friends with someone Gilbert went to university with, so we met at that friend's birthday about five years ago."

Gilbert hummed and finally spoke up: "Two peas in a pod, I didn't leave him alone all night."

At that, Antonio smiled. "You were adamant you'd bother me until I gave you my phone number so you could call me and ask to go out. Not even on a _date_ ," he added, "but just platonically as friends. And I thought you were an absolute weirdo."

“But you still gave me your number.”

“Pretty sure Fran was the one who gave you my number, actually.”

“Oh. True.”

It had been a very good first-date-but-not-a-first-date all the same, and all that time ago…

* * *

**_21:28pm._ **

Annikki had been sleeping until her phone had started buzzing. She'd hoped for a peaceful night after a rather long day and then a busy evening with the kids. But, if she had to go by the name of the person calling her, then she'd bet tonight was going to be anything _but_ peaceful.

Downstairs, she found Linnea in the kitchen clearing up some of the mess. She felt bad that she hadn't helped, but she felt even worse knowing that she had to leave again…

"Hopefully I won't be long, but Basch hasn't quite told me what to expect," she said meekly as she searched for her car keys. Linnea had already offered to give her a lift and pick her up, but Anna had insisted she stay with the kids, even if they were asleep. She found her keys in one of the kitchen drawers. "I'll see you soon. Don't wait up for me, okay?"

* * *

**_21:29pm._ **

Another week, another night, another body. This time, it seemed to be someone younger. Not an alleyway, but down by the riverside. The killer was getting bolder, more cocky, more _public_. He had already called for forensics. Now all he had left to do was to call his two detectives and summon them.

Angry was not the only word that could describe how Basch felt.

Someone else was trying to run the city with fear, someone else was trying to play God with the citizens they were supposed to be protecting. Someone thought they could get away with these acts. And it was utterly, utterly unacceptable.

* * *

**_21:32pm._ **

Gilbert left the dinner party early. Ludwig agreed to take Antonio home a bit later on. Antonio forgot to wish Gilbert luck, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finally sat down and wrote some more of this thing - it's been nearly 2 weeks, talk about a motivation crash, jeez...
> 
> but, it's my last full day in Spain today - tomorrow it's back off to the UK and 10 days of isolation, so i figured i could update now before going on another writing spree to pass those days away. Christmas is gonna be ~fun~ this year, hehe :')
> 
> so, here ya go! i hope you enjoyed! i can't believe so many people are actually reading this abomination. this all started off as a shitty idea purely for self-indulgence, like i never imagined ever writing more than two or three chapters, yet here we are, over a third of the way through the whole thing!
> 
> anywhos, i'mma sleep now, got an early start to get to the airport and get through security and all that stuff. i cannot wait to be hoooome <3


	17. Act II - 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert goes to the latest crime scene, but he isn't the one in for a shock—at least, not until he gets back to the station. Meanwhile, a journalist continues her own investigation, while Abel's investigations (of varying natures) just get underway...

**_Friday 27th March. 07:24pm._ **

It was raining. It was gloomy. It would have been poetic, with such pathetic fallacy, had Gilbert not wished for something a little more uplifting in lieu of the previous night’s events. Basch had called him as everyone had been sat socialising in the living room, snug and cosy, some light music going in the background as they caught up on lost time and learned things about each other whether old acquaintance or new friends. 

It had been going so, so well…

He had been able to sense the disappointment in the room when he had ended the call, standing in the doorway to the entrance hall. They had understood, of course. Antonio had stayed behind so that Gilbert could take the car straight to the crime scene, agreeing to Ludwig’s offer to take him home later. They would all get together again another time if they could. But right now—right then—he hadn’t been able to hang around. He had left within two minutes of that phone call.

When he had gotten back to the apartment later that night, Antonio was already fast asleep and tucked up snuggly on his side of the bed. Gilbert had not joined him right away.

Now it was the next day.

Antonio had another day off, so Gilbert left him in bed, successful in his mission to not wake him up. It looked like the other hadn't even moved from his position the night before. Perhaps he had just been that tired…

Either way, Gilbert had started making his way to work a little earlier than normal so he could get a rapid start on this third victim. The crime scene itself had been different to previous ones—more gutsy, more provocative. The body had been taken to the riverside, down the steps to the base of one of the minor bridges, left on the East Side banks. The way it had been dumped and partially covered would imply that if it had been seen, people would have assumed it to be a homeless person just crashing, sheltering from the cold.

But it wasn't. It was a youth—no older than his early-twenties—pale as anything, stripped down naked besides the sleeping bag he had been covered with as a guise, and dead. Well and truly dead.

And Gilbert felt responsible for that. He _was_ responsible for that.

What had only made it all worse, however, was turning up to the scene to find Annikki, who had just shown up herself, having what seemed like a panic attack. He’d never seen her like that. He had never seen her so distressed by a crime scene, not in all the time he had known her. He had ignored the body for the first minute or so he had been on site, just to make sure his usually strong and collected friend was alright. 

She wasn't.

But it had been buried down for the sake of the investigation, because she had a job to do, and in her words: _someone has to do it, and I would rather it be me._ Not for vanity, not because she was the most skilled. It was because, very simply: _I know who he is. And I want to show him my respects._

It hadn't stopped her hands from shaking while she worked and analysed the scene, checking for the usual signs, the tells that would match this crime to the previous two. The only obvious sign, however, had been that a symbol—a similar bloodied marking from the other crime scenes had been smeared onto the stone wall next to where the body lay. The same mysterious symbol. _The same bastard killer._

The key differences, however, lay in that Annikki did not announce a death likely caused by respiratory depression (i.e. an overdose, like in Yao and Sadiq before him), but strangulation. There was clear bruising around the neck which she said had come from a thin rope, or something of the like. No hands. No hints as to the gender or size or build of their killer, other than the fact that they managed to strangle the kid without any real struggle.

“His name’s Emil,” Annikki had said quietly after Gilbert had pointed out his keen observations at the crime scene. The pathologist had covered up the body again, this time using a provided tarp, because it had felt much more respectful than the sleeping bag provided by his murderer. “Family friend.”

Well, that explained it—the disruption, the upset, the breakdown. He was so young…

Yet, as terrible as it all was, things were not going to get any better for the detective the next day.

As he walked into the station, trying not to trail too much rain with him as his umbrella hung loose in his grasp, Gilbert was quickly met by a familiar face that he didn't believe had _ever_ been in the station before, which immediately set off the alarm bells. What made it only worse was that when they made eye contact, Mikkel walked right up to Gilbert with a panic and nervousness that he had not seen in the man before. That was when his heart began to crumple like paper. Why else would Mikkel be there, today of all days…?

"Gil, thank God— I came as soon as I heard the news, I need to talk to you."

His heart stopped crumpling. Now it was his brain that was trying the origami. "What do you mean?" Gilbert asked, utterly puzzled. "What 'news'?"

_Please don't tell me the media has already gotten a fucking hold on this shit…_

"The third victim," Mikkel replied, his voice hushed yet firm. As though he didn't quite understand why Gilbert didn't already know this part. "I know who it is, I… I came to help," he stated. "I want to help as much as I can."

 _The media circus would have been better than this_ , was the first thought that ran through the detective's head. The second was: _Mikkel knows the victim; did he know the others? Or does Honda have a connection to the kid…?_ The third one, which he subconsciously realised should have preceded the others, was: _Oh my fucking God, Mikkel knows the victim as well, he knows this poor kid, he knows who…_ And then, finally: _how come he knows the victim's identity before anything has been released…?_

Gilbert decided it would be best to not interrogate his friend in the middle of a hallway. There was always an innocent explanation for something like this, so he simply thanked the other, in that case, and directed him towards his office. Arthur had not yet turned up, to his relief. That would leave them alone to talk.

“Just give me a minute,” Gilbert said to the blonde as he took a seat as directed. It occurred to him, as he began to log into his computer, that Annikki knew Mikkel, and that if she knew the victim as well, that must have been where the connection lay. As he entered his password, he said to the other: “Have you been waiting for me for long?”

“About ten minutes,” Mikkel said—fast.

He was emotional. It was in his voice, in the way his hands rested on Gilbert’s desk, not quite able to stay still. Whoever Emil was, he clearly meant something to both Mikkel and Annikki, and Gilbert… he felt more responsible than ever before for the fact that they had now both lost someone. _My friends. I let my friends down…_

_Three people are dead._

“Mikkel, I…”

The detective stopped, eyes fixed on his computer screen before he found it in himself to not be a coward and to look his friend in the eye while he spoke. He owed him at least that. He owed him the human decency, the simple courtesy…

He started again: “Mikkel, I have to say, I’m truly… sorry for your loss,” Gilbert said to him, tone gentle and controlled. “I don’t know how you know Emil, but I can see you’re hurting. And I want to thank you—for coming to see me, and for helping.”

The other seemed to struggle to speak at first—though whether it was because he was overwhelmed or because he couldn’t find the right words was not so clear. But Mikkel took a steady breath, a slow inhale, before he steeled himself in the same way Gilbert had had to. “He’s the brother of a friend,” he explained. “He’s a university student, first year—Emil Bondevik. A good kid, you know?”

“I know, I remember,” Gilbert nodded; “Bondevik is Lukas, right? I’m sure you’ve mentioned him before.”

“Yeah, yeah… Lukas…”

“Right. And, uh… I suppose Annikki got in contact with you both about this?”

Mikkel gave a stiff, tense nod. “Lukas got a call late last night. She said she was going to wait until morning, but she couldn’t sleep. Then Lukas called me, absolutely in pieces. He already hadn't heard from Emil for about a day, he'd already been feeling a bit anxious… A-And then I had to go over to his place to keep an eye on him, when Annikki told him what had happened. He was so…" Mikkel trailed off, not quite able to put in words. He shook his head and finished with: "She won't… be in trouble for that, will she? For telling Lukas, I mean…?"

It was a good question. It definitely was not the way things were done, it definitely broke normal procedure, but… "I don't see why," he assured his friend. "She knew the victim, too. It was only fair to let you and Lukas know as soon as possible, and I think it would have been better to come from her than from me. From someone who understands your pain better."

Mikkel seemed grateful for that at least. He didn't say it, but he didn't exactly need to—the brief and melancholy smile he gave was sign enough. It didn't make Gilbert feel any better, though.

"So, Lukas hadn't heard from him, you said? For about a day?" Gilbert asked him. _Might as well start doing some actual detecting._

"Lukas has always been a worrier like that," Mikkel nodded slowly. "Emil had just finished an assignment and had told Lukas he was going out with some friends from class to celebrate getting the paper in. Wednesday night. Emil isn't always the best with messaging family, so I figured he was hungover, maybe sleeping it off through yesterday… Lukas was less convinced. He was going to look for him today, see if he was in dorms, file a… file a missing person's report…"

"I see, alright." Gilbert made a mental note, _Wednesday evening, the victim goes MIA,_ and then decided to probe a little more into Emil's student life. It seemed like the best place to start. "Is there anything you can tell me about university that could be useful? What he studied, his closest friends, that sort of thing?"

"Oh, uh—…" Mikkel took a second, face scrunching up as he seemed to be thinking quite hard, before, with a sharp breath, he managed to force out: "Geophysics." _Geophysics?_ "He studies Geophysics," the blonde went on to say. "Enjoys it, all that volcano stuff. He's pretty clever! As for friends though, I'm not too sure… He got mixed with the wrong crowd for a while, I think. Emil only recently managed to leave them behind to focus on his studies."

Gilbert gave a slow nod. _Curious._ "The wrong crowd in what way?" _Softcore like they were all emos or some shit, or hardcore like they were all doing cocaine every night? What if that has something to do with why he went missing…?_

"Just troublemakers. A bit of graffiti here and there, disturbances of the peace—though personally, I don't think loud music is that bad, especially when living on a campus. Ah— And there was a small bullying incident Lukas mentioned a couple weeks ago. But Emil wasn't really involved. A lot of the other students got suspended," he explained. Meanwhile, Gilbert couldn't decide how much and what derails specifically he ought to have been writing down. "I think that's helped set Emil back on the right track."

 _A little bit of everything, then._ Gilbert would have congratulated the turn around under normal circumstances, but given that Emil had now lost his life—had been _killed_ by someone—it was clearly not the time nor the place. It never really _would_ be…

Their conversation went on a bit more. Mikkel had to explain that Lukas was not in a good place, which was why he had come forward instead—the other would need some more time before facing any kind of questions the police would have. Gilbert understood entirely. And he made it clear once more that he appreciated that Mikkel had come to the station himself, without having to be asked. It had been good to learn some things, both about Emil and his older brother, and he reminded the other that he was there should he ever need to talk—friend to friend, the badge aside.

In the end, Mikkel got up to leave and Gilbert stood as well, preparing to walk him out, until Mikkel insisted it was fine. Gilbert felt a bit awkward, and rather helpless. He wanted to do what he could for his friend ( _compensating, Gil, you’re compensating for the fact that you let this kid die_ ). But it seemed he could now only wait for his friend to come to him, should he need it. He wouldn’t push or invade…

“We’ll be working around the clock to solve this,” he said at some moment, the words just bursting out of him. They weren’t exactly necessary. It was just a nervous thing…

What he didn’t quite expect, however, was for Mikkel to stop in his tracks just at the office door, before turning to Gilbert and saying: “Shouldn’t you be working around the clock _anyway_?”

It was true. 

Gilbert knew it was true, but it didn’t stop it from stinging. 

They were stuck like that for several seconds, staring at each other in silence. Mikkel was the one who moved at last, quietly saying sorry and then thanking Gilbert for listening to him—for looking out for him. 

The silence lingered after Mikkel had left. 

It then hung around for the next ten minutes or so while Gilbert went through a report he’d been sent that morning about the crime scene.

It was then finally broken when Arthur showed up with a bunch of photographs from the crime scene in his hand, which were unapologetically slammed down (well, not quite _slammed_ , but he was a little more rough with the stack that he really needed to be). 

“This,” Arthur said, “is a mess.”

“You’re telling me,” Gilbert responded in a mumble, only half-interested. He was busy with the report. He was busy hanging onto those words. _Shouldn’t you be working around the clock anyway?_

“Poor kid, he was so young. I’ve been talking to Annikki about it,” the blonde continued all the same. “Bondevik, she said. His older brother owns this new little bookstore. It’s quite nice and has some rather curious books—I popped in just last week, and he seemed friendly enough. Lukas, I mean. The brother. I feel bad for him…”

Gilbert only hummed distantly.

“It doesn’t even make sense, the MO is so different,” Arthur rattled on. “Different location, different method—the only similarity is that symbol.”

“Still on the East Side, though.”

“Yeah, but by the river. Not an alley, but somewhere more public. Doesn’t that concern you?”

“This whole thing concerns me,” a third voice said. Both detectives looked up and around to see that Basch had appeared in the doorway, and he looked even more sour and pissed off than he had done the night before when he’d been there waiting for them at the crime scene. Gilbert hadn’t thought it possible. “My office, now,” the shorter man said. “We need to have a serious talk.”

They had no choice but to do as they were told.

* * *

**_08:53am._ **

The crime scene was still cordoned off, and there was a single officer at the scene keeping watch to make sure no one would intrude. It was sad to see. Another victim, reduced to a square of yellow-black tape. No name had been released—she suspected one wouldn't be released for at least a couple days—but she knew whose body had been there: someone young, someone who had a bright future far away from there… 

Another person had been swallowed up by this city. 

And now, there was officially a serial killer roaming the streets.

Renata gave the crime scene only another five seconds of her time, looking down on it from where she stood on the Western side of the river. With the victim's name rolling around in the back of her mind, she set a new destination in mind and got to walking. Walking always helped clear her mind, always helped her think more clearly.

As she went on her way, she pulled out a small blue jotting pad from her pocket and began reviewing the notes she had already made on the previous two murders she'd been looking into. Her visit to the vet the other day had provided a little bit of information, as had a subsequent visit to a certain doctor's surgery, but there was naturally only so far she could go before she pushed boundaries and made her profession as a journalist obvious. That was the _last_ thing she needed. After all, there was no telling when she would need to return for further intel, and she didn't exactly need the police on her back for 'being nosy', either.

The university was her destination, this time. Emil had been a student, which meant he had professors, classmates, flatmates—people who could give her some insight into who he was and particularly into his last two weeks whilst living and studying on campus. His behaviour, his activities, his general demeanour. There may have been some clues somewhere as to what had happened to him, why he had been killed, and most importantly: who had done it.

For now, at least, she seemed to be ahead of the investigating detective team.

She'd have to cover the enquiries at the university over two or three days to avoid gaining too much suspicion, and just to make sure she could speak to enough people. Because it was a Friday, she'd start with the lecturers. From there, she would merely have to play it by ear.

* * *

**_13:24pm._ **

Abel turned off the hoover and put it back away in his cleaning cupboard (yes, he had a whole cupboard dedicated to his cleaning products—and he was proud of the fact). The living area was now (more or less) (temporarily) back in order and back to some sort of normality. That just left the bedroom.

 _First things first_ , he told himself as he stared into his vast collection of sprays, cloths, bottles and cans, _I'd better sweep the room_. Not with a broom—not a sweep in that sense—but more like… 

Two minutes later, Abel located the discarded condom. He really hated how careless Henrique was with these sorts of things, just tossing them aside rather than putting them into the bin like a normal, responsible adult. Hell, even a teenage boy could do a better job! (And Abel quickly discovered he hadn't even tied the damn thing; it was pure luck that none of that mess got onto his lovely, clean, _dark grey_ carpet!).

Hurrying to rectify Henrique's blunder, Abel went to throw away the used condom (he was reminded as he walked that in Portuguese, they were called _preservativos_ , which was a strange fucking word in his opinion, but when Henrique said it it sounded at least 14% less weird, so go figure) in the kitchen bin. He hadn't found anything else on the floor that had needed binning; the sheets would need changing and the room in general could do with a freshen up, but otherwise it seemed suitable enough.

Abel was about to open the bin when his phone had started ringing. _He had better not be calling me while he's supposed to be working_. Henrique was getting into such bad habits…

With the… _preservativo_ forgotten between his fingers, he pulled his mobile from his back pocket and was almost surprised that it wasn't actually Henrique. What surprised him more was that it was Henrique's brother.

He answered the call.

"What's the emergency?" he asked right off the bat.

A beat of silence came through the line, before Antonio said: "There's no emergency. Aren't I allowed to call you?" 

"We have a day off. I've been enjoying the peace, and it would be nice to continue with that if possible."

"Oh, _please,_ " the other replied, "as if you're doing anything other than cleaning!" Abel glanced at the condom, grimaced, and quickly slipped it into the bin where it belonged. "I know you, and you always use your free afternoons to clean—specifically between the hours of twelve and three. You are consistent!"

The precision of it almost amused the Dutchman, who walked to the sink to wash his hands, phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder as he threw back: "You need to stop spying on me, Toni. You have a boyfriend."

"What can I say?" Antonio laughed quietly, briefly. "It pays to know when I can and can't bother my friends."

That… caught Abel's attention. "Was there something specific you needed to bother me about?" he questioned. A frown had fallen onto his features. Antonio normally called to make conversation because he was bored, not because he actually _needed_ to speak… 

"Yeah, uh… I guess there is, to be fair," Antonio confessed, though he was very fast to add: "But I'd rather talk to you in person if I could? There's a lot I need to just… talk about. And I need a good, honest opinion."

"And you've come to me for that?"

"You don't mince your words or sugar-coat them. And I could really do with some non-minced, non-sugary words."

This sounded serious.

"How about lunch, in that case," Abel suggested. "Or a coffee."

"Coffee's good. I'll buy," Antonio promised him. "Thank you for this, Abel. It… means a lot to me."

"Don't mention it. I'll pick you up in ten minutes and we'll go. Did you want to go into the city centre, or that shopping centre you like.”

“The shopping centre, if that’s alright? I can get some other shopping done while I’m there."

“Alright, that’s fine. I’ll see you in ten, Toni.”

"That's perfect, I'll see you soon. Thanks again."

Abel spent the next ten minutes brainstorming all of the possible things that Antonio could want to talk to him about. Whatever it was, it seemed to have the other in a bit of a tizz, a bit of a mess… He just hoped he could help. And that he could also think of a good excuse as to why Henrique's jacket, which he only noticed when he'd already started driving, was in the back of his car when he'd had a 'peaceful day', _God-fucking-damnit, Hen!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't publish this late, not at all. shush.
> 
> i hope you all had a good Christmas/festive season! mine was great, and best of all, it snowed today which was a blessing! we didn't get any in the last 2 years down here so it was lovely to see and run out in fir a few minutes before it got too cold :')
> 
> meanwhile, rip Emil. oops. 
> 
> wonder what Antonio needs to talk to Abel about. 
> 
> and will Gil let Mikkel's words get to him?
> 
> that's a given.
> 
> 'til next time, folks! <3


	18. Act II - 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Market visits, café visits, campus visits, and short-but-unplanned encounters. People seem to be up to things all over the place! Here's hoping they're simply... 'good' things...

**_Sunday 29th March. 09:18am._ **

Kiku had closed the surgery for the day to make some time for himself, for his own mental health. Of course that wasn't the excuse shared with the few patients who had had appointments that morning, but it was easier to give some generic reason rather than having the receptionist inform everyone that Kiku was still fighting off mental breakdowns. That would hardly do his reputation any wonders.

To escape the world of work, Kiku had decided to venture to the Sunday market on the East Side. He would buy some fish and an assortment of vegetables he could use in some of his favourite comfort food recipes. Then he would go home, cook, and probably just… mope around the rest of his day. It wasn’t often he could say his motivation lacked, but these days, it seemed that it was becoming a more common trend with every passing hour. 

He hadn’t heard anything from the police in a while.

That should have been good news, but for some reason, that seemed to only bother him more. Because it meant that… they were still searching, still investigating, still trying to find the person who had—

The marketplace was relatively quiet for that time in the morning. He made his way past the various stalls—sweets, olives, textiles, papercrafts—until he reached the far end, where the fishmonger and the butcher were tucked into one of the corners. He greeted the fishmonger ( _I don’t know his name, but maybe I should. What if he died? What if I become one of the last people he sees and I have to face more questions_ —) and got straight to ordering his mix of salmon, prawns and tuna. 

That transaction went smoothly enough (he never made conversation, he never asked for the man’s name) and he continued on to the grocers. It was while he was perusing the selection of cabbages, however, he was met by someone he did in fact know by name.

“Heracles,” he said in greeting, when the familiar Greek appeared just a metre away where the fruit section began. The brunette turned to look at him, seemingly just as surprised, but he gave a small smile that Kiku didn’t mind replicating. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you,” Heracles replied with a nod. “How have you been?”

And things went a bit wobbly for a moment. “Well,” the shorter man began, “all things considered… It’s been…”

“It’s okay, I know. I’m sorry for your loss,” Heracles said to him quietly. His green eyes fell back down to the fruit for a moment, before a few apples went into the wicker basket in his hand. “It must be a tough time right now.”

Kiku certainly appreciated the sentiment, though he did have to say: “It must be hard for you, too. You and Sadiq were close.”

“So were you and Yao.”

“Yes, well… I try not to dwell on it too much. I am still… trying to come to terms with it.”

“I understand that. Things like this take time, and we all grieve in our own ways,” Heracles mused. Kiku couldn’t tell whether he was saying that to him or himself, however. “But if you ever… If you ever need someone to talk to, about anything, then know you can come to me. It isn’t always good to try and deal with this sort of thing alone.”

It was a very kind and generous offer. Did he mean it? Did he really mean he’d be willing to support Kiku, to look out for him, or to listen to him in the moments when everything crashed down on top of him because now he had lost two people and the world just seemed so empty and grey and numb without them—?

The doctor took a slow breath, trying not to choke on it to the best of his ability. _Calm down. Please, calm down._

“I— I think that would be good,” he barely managed to say. He couldn’t quite meet Heracles’ gaze, but he was sure that was only another thing that the other would understand right now. _He’s lost someone, too, after all_. “Maybe we can arrange something. Just to talk, or to distract us.”

“Whatever you need. Just send me a text, or give me a call, and I’ll be there.”

Kiku almost smiled at the sentiment. “Thank you,” he said. “I will be sure to help you where I can as well, should you need it.”

Because one good turn deserved another, and Heracles, as strong as he seemed to be, had been holding onto an apple for a while. And his hand had been shaking. And Kiku simply knew in that very moment that they clearly needed one another. There was no comparing their grief, their loss, their pain. They both needed someone. And it seemed that, for now, they only had each other. They had to watch each other's backs.

Which suddenly reminded him:

"Heracles, I have to ask you…" the doctor began trying to think of the best way to say this without it sounding too odd. "The other day, a woman came into the surgery and started to ask some questions. Does that…" He stopped and tried again. "Have you…?" _Damn it_.

The Greek gave a soft hum all the while. He seemed to understand. "Short woman, brown hair," he nodded. _Wow, he really does understand...?_ "She came in with her cat. Although, the cat did actually need some basic medical attention, _poor kitty_ …"

"B-But she was asking questions, too?"

"Not exactly," Heracles shook his head. "She spoke a bit about the murders, but she never said anything specific about Sadiq. Why do you ask?"

"Because," Kiku replied in a half-mumble, "she definitely wasn't police…"

It took a few seconds for the implications to set in, it seemed, but Heracles eventually cottoned on. He gave a quiet ' _ohhh_ ' and tutted. "That makes sense. I didn't even realise. I suppose I'll have to be more careful about who I talk to, I don't need newspapers at my door."

Kiku nodded in agreement. "Me neither," he said. "That would be the worst thing I could possibly imagine, right now…"

* * *

**_11:06am._ **

"You said you were going to try and cook something for yourself—you _literally promised_ —and now you tell me you're still eating microwave lasagne!"

"I can't help working shit shifts, I never had time to cook!"

"Bullshit! You have a day off today, so you can absolutely cook something!"

"And I usually _do_ on my days off, because I have the time!" Alfred defended, unable to not pout.

Lovino had been ripping into him for the past two minutes about poor eating habits, and it seemed that letting it slip that he had another 'junk lasagna' last night had been a bad idea. Now he was facing pure _wrath_. Thank God the Sunday service hours were different and no one else was there at the minute, leaving them to argue alone in the trattoria over their coffees.

"Tonight I was going to make a Cajun-style gumbo, chicken and sausage— _my_ kinda comfort food!" the blonde went on, selling his case against the prosecutor. "I was even thinking of making _you_ some!"

If catching Lovino by surprise was what he had intended to do, then he succeeded. 

(It wasn't _exactly_ what the plan had been, but either way, it seemed to give him a sudden and small advantage that he couldn't afford to waste. Plus, Lovino looked funny when he was confused and frowning, _haha._ )

"You," the Italian said, "are going to make a full, proper, home-cooked dinner. And something that's actually healthy?"

"Yeah! Momma's famous recipe—best Cajun gumbo you'll ever taste!"

"It would be, actually."

"...what do you mean?"

"Well, it hasn't exactly got much competition for that title since I've never had whatever the heck _Cajun_ is."

Now it was Alfred's turn to be shocked. 

"You've _never_ had Cajun food before?"

Lovino shook his head.

"And you're lecturing _me_ about _my_ food habits! That— That's it," Alfred stated, cracking his knuckles and pulling a semi-serious face as he leaned on the counter and peered down his nose and over the rim of his glasses at Lovino ( _fuck yeah, intimidating!_ ). "You, Señor—"

" _Si_ -gnor- _e_ _,_ " Lovino muttered as he rolled his eyes.

"—Hypocrite are going to have some of Momma's gumbo, if it's the last thing I do, and you are going to _love it._ "

"Is that so?"

"Yes!"

"Alright. I'll hold you to it."

Alfred would have said more. He would have invited him over later that evening to have a sample, maybe a drink, _in that case_. He would have invited him over for dinner full-stop just to prove he could cook, and that he cooked well when he did, and that it tasted _amazing_ —just like Mom used to make!

However, the opportunity was missed. The door to the trattoria opened, stealing away their attention. Lovino got halfway through a single word (he was probably going to tell whoever it was that they were closed and to come back) but he stopped himself. A young woman had walked in, perhaps a little younger than them ( _shit, wait, how old was Lovino again? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight…?_ ) or perhaps, around Alfred's age, if he had to give it a solid guess. But she was pretty and smiling and waving at Lovino and leaning on a crutch and—

 _Oh, fuck, she's_ —!

Lovino had already run out from behind the counter and thrown his arms around the girl, seemingly not aware that he almost knocked her over in his excitement. Still, she laughed and hugged him back, and they exchanged some rather rapid and possibly emotional words between them in Italian. When Lovino eventually pulled away, he was smiling as well. He kissed her forehead, said another something-or-other in their mother tongue, and then looked to Alfred.

"Not quite how I imagined this going," the brunette remarked, "but it will have to do. Alfred, meet Fiorella, my sister."

"Oh please, call me Ella or Fee, but not Fiorella. I sound like an old lady!" she laughed, before saying: "It's a pleasure to meet you, Alfred!" practically beaming at him. 

She didn’t make to move towards him, but it was understandable, so Alfred did the courteous thing and got up, walking towards her and holding out a friendly hand. "Pleasure's all mine," he replied just as Fiorella took his hand in hers and quickly shook. "It's nice to meet you in person. Though, I have to admit, this is also not exactly how I expected to meet you…"

"Yeah, about that," she mumbled, giving a nervous chuckle. But she never did explain 'that', so Lovino did that for her, too:

"She discharged herself from the hospital this morning," he explained to Alfred. The blonde gave a quiet 'ah' and nodded along. "Fee thought it would be a good idea to surprise me, rather than contacting me to come and pick her up. Not sure if I’m surprised or in shock, though, to be honest."

"Well if you're in shock, it's a good job you've got a paramedic on hand," Alfred reminded him in jest. "Always here to help!"

"Ah yes, my saviour."

In a way, Alfred _had_ been his saviour. His friend, his support, his doctor when he'd needed it. But it was a conversation Lovino had not had with his sister as far as Alfred was aware, so he wasn't going to bring it up. It was for them to discuss in their own time.

"Vee, you never told me he was a paramedi—"

"I didn't think it was relevant!" Lovino burst to defend, scowling at his younger sister (even if Alfred could tell it was a half-hearted effort, because Lovino was not the sort of person who could ever be genuinely mad at his family. _Softie_ ). "He's helped me a lot, that was what mattered. He's helped _us_ ," he reiterated. "He's a damn good friend, paramedic or not."

Fiorella gave a quiet laugh-come-giggle. "Aww, you've been making friends all on your own! I'm so proud of you!" she cooed.

Lovino's face started to go slightly red, the colour dusting over his cheeks. "I know how to make friends on my own, dammit," he practically hissed, "I just choose not to most of the time! People are idiots, and I can't be dealing with that shit!"

"Wait, so, you don't think I'm an idiot?"

Lovino looked at Alfred. The blonde felt almost giddy and most definitely amused by this jrw development.

"That," the Italian began, slowly, "is not what I said."

"But you _implied_ it!"

"That doesn't mean I _meant_ it!"

"Oh my god, you totally think I'm not an idiot! Because we're friends! My— _You_ ," Alfred said to Lovino, clapping his hands to let out some of the excitement and joy that was surging in his veins, "have just made my day!"

Maybe even his whole darn week.

* * *

**_12:30pm._ **

Gilbert and Arthur arrived at the university campus. There were a couple people of interest they had been unable to get a hold of previously, but it seemed that today was their next best shot. 

The plan had already been laid out en route: Arthur would go to student services to see if Emil had been in contact with any worries, with any needs—basically to see if he had paid a visit to either the doctors or nurses or the counsellors that worked for the university. Meanwhile, Gilbert would find the Department of Natural Sciences to find one of Emil's lecturers to fill in some other gaps there about Emil's last days on campus.

Emil had gone missing Wednesday night (and worryingly, Annikki had said the kid had only been dead for a few hours when they found him, which meant all of Thursday, he had to have been alive somewhere… A whole twenty hours or so unaccounted for…). There had to be something, somewhere, that someone _knew_ , that could help them.

"The faculty lounge is in the North Building," Arthur told Gilbert as they got out of the car. "Shouldn't miss it. Hopefully our guy's in there."

"Ah, North? Alright, well… His colleagues _did_ say he liked to spend Sunday afternoons working."

"Not everyone can be a creature of habit," Arthur reminded him; "sometimes things pop up in life and plans have to change."

Gilbert quietly scoffed, locking the car and shoving the keys into his pocket. "Loving the optimism as always, Kirkie. Meet back here in an hour, see what we can find out?"

"Sounds good to me."

And with that, they split off.

Arthur had been right to say he wouldn't miss the North Building—it was very well signposted to say the least, and a modern building that, if he had to put a word to, definitely screamed ' _sciencey_ '. Gilbert entered the faculty building and went off in search of the Natural Sciences department. He got there eventually with the help of the admin team, who directed him up one floor and along the main corridor and then around the left-hand corner. _Natural Sciences_. And then, more specifically, _Geophysics_.

However, as Gilbert turned that left corner, he could see through the windows in the double doors that the professor he was presumably there to see (no other lecturers were around, lights off, doors shut...) was in the middle of a conversation with someone. A very question-and-answery sort of conversation, going by the body language (shifting weight, leaning to one side, long pauses, distant glances as opposite walls…).

The detective felt somewhat unnerved. _Who the fuck…?_

Oh, but seriously, who was he kidding, it was probably just a student. Whoever they were—short, casually dressed, female, dark brown hair—they seemed to be wrapping up anyway. Gilbert caught a flash of her rounder face, green eyes, her softer features as she stepped around the professor towards a different set of doors (which thankfully did not lead right to Gilbert). A thank you was passed (presumably) between them and the student went on their way, down the opposite corridor. That gave Gilbert the all-clear to enter the atrium, where the professor remained standing and staring at some book or other.

_Here we go…_

As it turned out, talking to the professor was not the most _useful_ of exchanges he had ever had. The man was not the most vigilant when it had come to students and had been unable to provide any sort of solid, tangible notion as to Emil's state of mind in lessons in the weeks leading up to his disappearance. He had 'um'd and 'err'd like there was no tomorrow!

What he had done, however, at the very least, was provide a little more context into something Mikkel had spoken to Gilbert about—the 'wrong crowd'. He'd said that there had been an incident maybe three weeks before involving some vandalism and another first year student who had gotten beaten up pretty badly by a group of students. The victim had had to go to hospital for treatment. As far as he knew, Emil had not had a part in it and had in fact been the one to contact the campus security team, who had arrived within minutes to separate the group.

Emil had been given a strict warning. The others, who had participated, had been suspended. 

According to this professor as well, in _general_ , Emil was a quiet but studious individual. He got on with his work and generally got good marks on his assignments. He didn't show up late. He didn't disrupt classes. He always did the extra reading. Really, he was quite surprised when he'd learnt of the kid's extracurricular 'activities'.

But even that had not been the most curious thing he had said.

_No._

The _real_ cherry on top had come from an offhand comment that the lecturer seemed to not pay much mind to, but one that had hit Gilbert square in the face with the weight of a brick. _It's a funny thing_ , he had said; _a young woman just came in asking some similar questions._ The professor hadn't known who she was or why she was asking, but Gilbert didn't care so much for that—he was now feeling more threatened and nervous above all else.

 _Someone else is investigating this case_ , he told himself in simple words as he walked back to the car. _And they beat us to it, today._

He was going to have to tell Arthur. And then they were both going to seriously have to step up their game, because Gilbert would be damned if some amateur busy-body, or, God forbid, _a journalist_ , started making their own connections and came to a solution before he did. This was _his_ case, not _theirs_! It was his job!

There was no way he was going to let someone else stick their nose in it…

* * *

**_14:34pm._ **

With that meeting over, Henrique could not have been more relieved. He'd just successfully picked up a new client—a new event for him to organise and plan and throw himself right into—and it felt good to hear they'd heard about his small business through a friend. Word was slowly growing, as was his reputation. 

As he exited the café, where he and the new client had met to discuss ideas and start brainstorming, a familiar face soon came into view walking towards him amongst a small crowd of people. It was a face he hadn’t seen in a while, not that he had ever been more than amicable with the person, nor did he know why his presence had lessened. It was just another thing that Antonio did not want to tell his older brother.

Still, it didn’t stop Henrique from greeting Francis as the blonde approached. He even slowed his pace a little, in case the other decided he wanted to make conversation—and it turned out that he did.

“Henrique, what a surprise!” Francis said as he came to stop in front of the other, making sure to move aside so as not to obstruct the sidewalk. They both ended up standing near the buildings (naturally a safer option than standing on the road’s edge). “How have you been? You know, I’ve been meaning to get in contact with you.”

“Oh, uh..." He was taken aback, feeling fairly surprised. "I’m fine, thanks. And… you _have_?”

“Office event coming up in July,” the other replied in elaboration. _Now that makes a bit more sense._ “One of our team is retiring, so we thought a proper send-off was in order. I figured that could be of interest...?”

“Sure. Feel free to email me about it,” Henrique suggested. Francis should already have the address, given that he had already helped with two previous events for the firm of lawyers. “I’d be more than happy to help you out. Just send me some details and we can sit down and talk it all through at some point, work on a plan.”

Francis smiled warmly. “That would be wonderful, thank you. I’ll do that as soon as I get a free moment,” he assured the brunette.

“Is, uh… work keeping you on your toes, then?”

“As always.”

“In which case, I'd better not disturb you—you’re a busy man."

“Aren’t we all?” Francis mused, but he was still smiling and he thanked Henrique again. “Oh, and say hello to Antonio for me if you get the chance, won’t you? I hope he’s getting on alright.”

Henrique assured him that he would, _if I get the chance._ What he didn’t understand was why Francis couldn’t just march up to Antonio or send him a message or give him a call and say hello for himself. Was it really so hard to do? They had been good friends, and Henrique couldn’t help but wonder as he walked, just what on earth had caused them to drift apart the way they had?

It was a shame. Henrique could just about tolerate Francis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not late. shh. don't come for me pls—
> 
> it legit has taken me nearly 3 weeks to write a new chapter which is why this has taken me so long to publish. and it wasn't even the whole chapter i struggled with, it was a s i n g l e interaction between 2 characters. i just couldn't write it. so i couldn't complete the chapter. so ican't wait for you to read that one, hope it's worth the p a i n xx
> 
> all the same, i hope THIS one is mildly worth the wait, even if it's just for Lovino calling out Alfred's microwave lasagne :')) (god it reminds me of student life, someone take me back--)
> 
> but anyways, see you next time for...
> 
> ~spoiler alert~
> 
> a minor breakthrough? ;) (it's about time...)


	19. Act II - 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert is at his wits end and escapes with Arthur to his apartment to try and refocus. They're missing something obvious in a pile of notes and evidence that make no sense. However, evening comes and an answer to one of the most pressing questions so far hits Gilbert square in the head. The person who throws it is not who he would have expected...

**_Friday 3rd April. 15:26pm._ **

It had been five days.

Five whole days.

No more stones had been overturned, no more leads had been found, no more productive information had been gathered on _any_ of their three victims.

The detectives had found themselves facing a solid brick wall covered top to bottom in notes, crime scene photos, testaments and theories. But they had barely been able to touch it or add to it in the last few days, and Gilbert had never known a frustration like it. It made no sense. 

They had gone back to speak to all of their main witnesses and/or suspects so far, but the picture had become no clearer. Lukas had said that Emil going out was not unusual behaviour, as he had done it a few times before with his classmates to celebrate some sort of milestone; Kiku had had no clue who Emil was, which meant he had no viable connection to the teen, which then had his connection to the entire case only more dubious; Heracles had been a similar story, not knowing Emil, let alone recognising his photo; and who had that really left?

 _Well… there is the autopsy, but that…_ Gilbert looked at the whiteboard, where a photo of Emil’s abandoned body had clear notes scribbled in red next to it: _morphine_ , _naloxone, strangulation_. Annikki had determined that the strangulation was what had finished the boy off, but had pointed out the rather harrowing fact that naloxone was typically used to counter an opioid overdose—like a morphine overdose. So, presumably, the killer had gone in for the usual method, and had gine as far as injecting the kid with the morphine, but had then changed their mind and gone for a more personal, more brutal killing.

(That was terrifying to think, that this person was playing God so willingly, having _fun_ with torturing the teen. Given that he had not been dead that long when the body was found, that left almost a whole day of him being alive, enduring God knew what, and in the mix some madman was injecting him with morphine and then blocking the overdose. Once? Twice? It was like they were experimenting, testing the waters… He felt sick to the core.)

Gilbert had made sure that Mikkel and Lukas were only aware of the strangulation. There was no need to cause them any extra grief with the thought that Emil suffered so much…

But other than that, little more had been gained. All the detectives had been left with was what they had otherwise already collected. And what lacked the most were _motives_ , the reasons why someone would want any of the three victims dead. There seemed to be nothing too obvious that could have put a mark against their names, nor anything that connected them that would put them in the sights of the same killer. (A security guy, a doctor, a student...).

That morning, the detectives had gone back to the very beginning of the investigation and started from scratch, retracing steps to see if there was something they had missed. No progress resulted. They reviewed the list of everyone they had spoken to and established which of the victims they did or did not know. No progress resulted. Gilbert had spent another block of time studying the symbols—all different, all bizarre—and trying to find some hint as to what they were on the Internet. No progress resulted.

With neither Yao nor Emil being found with their mobile phones, they lacked any hints there as to who the last people either of them had contacted were. They could access their social media, but Yao had an abandoned Facebook account, and Emil had a very quiet tumblr and instagram, which provided, _you guessed it_ , nothing of use. Other than the odd message, there had been nothing recent to indicate possible suspects, or just people in general they spoke to and who may have more input.

Moreover, Kiku had an alibi for two murders now, thanks to the security footage from the doctor’s surgery that showed him there on two separate evenings (Arthur had reasoned that there was a back entrance to the surgery via the stockroom, however, which meant they should not completely ruling the good doctor out; Gilbert was little less convinced, but for the sake of being thorough, what choice was there?). Heracles, Mikkel and Lukas seemed far less likely to have committed a crime (and two of them certainly didn’t have access to morphine). No one else could be considered as 'close' to the victims. It had to be assumed at this point that... perhaps the killer did not know any of them personally at all... 

All in all, Gilbert was more lost than he had ever been. It had been three whole weeks since the first body had been found. And did they have to show for it?

_Fuck all._

“That’s it,” the German detective huffed, when the both of them had gotten stuck in simply staring at the whiteboard for the umpteenth time that day; “being here is doing us no good whatsoever. I say we get out of this damned office.”

The suggestion seemed to pique Arthur’s curiosity. “Where do you want to go? Coffee?”

“Uhh, I was thinking more along the lines of my place,” Gilbert told him. “Might take Antonio up on that offer to let us have the apartment, I think being in a different environment will do us some good.”

“That, and it gets us out of Basch’s way,” the blonde concurred with a pensive hum. “I’ve been anxious for him to burst into the office again demanding an update. And I don’t think I want to face him any time soon.”

“Roger that. We’ll pack it up here and get going, in that case.”

“I like that plan. Should we… let Basch know we’re going?”

They stared at each other for a few seconds in silence. Then they both shook their heads in unison, a mutual ‘no’ falling into the air between them. There was no way they were going to go up to the other’s office and risk being interrogated on the spot about their progress. They weren’t going to dig their own graves like that.

Within five minutes, the detectives had left the building with their case files in hand, and they made it unscathed. If they were needed, then they’d be called, and they could play their absence off as going to visit someone to chase up a lead (in a worst case scenario, that was).

Back at the apartment, Gilbert and Arthur arrived to find Antonio up and about. The Spaniard had been on a night shift and had crawled back into bed fairly noisily at about five o’clock that morning, so it was good to see him on his feet, refreshed and alert and looking content with his cup of coffee. 

Gilbert recalled waking up to the sudden shift of the mattress, and then how Antonio had sort of clung to him—much more than normal. Whatever it was that had been bothering him had been left unsaid; the brunette had simply tucked himself in closely until, about an hour and a half later, Gilbert had had to pry himself free from the other’s grip. Part of him had felt bad for abandoning him, but Antonio hadn’t woken up, so he was spared any puppy eyes and soft pouts. It had lessened the guilt somewhat. 

Even so, now that Antonio had gotten some sleep, he seemed much more with it and much more composed. Whatever it was that had gotten to him the day before had been forgotten, like water off a duck’s back.

The brunette greeted them with a wave, a smile, a big ‘hello!’ from the kitchen. He emptied his cup of coffee dregs and set it in the sink, before he properly welcomed both of the detectives in. “I thought the both of you would still be at work,” he commented, his tone a mix of inquisitive and playful. “Did you need to escape that badly, huh?”

“Things have been a bit… slow,” Gilbert confessed, though he was sure Antonio was already aware of the fact based on their previous three conversations all about work over the past few days. It just hadn’t gotten any better… “I figured we’d come here, work in a less stressful place. See if we could get any further.”

“Ahh, is Basch still after your heads?”

“On a silver platter,” the German confirmed. “You don’t mind if we’re here…?”

Antonio shook his head. “It’s fine, I was heading out in a minute anyway, so you’ll have the place to yourselves for a bit.”

“Going anywhere nice?” Arthur asked, perhaps just to make conversation. 

“Oh, uh— Just to my brother’s,” Antonio replied. “I’m going to be a nuisance for a couple of hours.”

“And somehow,” Gilbert then piped up, “it’s _me_ he has a problem with, and not you?"

The brunette could only laugh at that. _Who said that was a joke?_ “He’s family, he’s my brother,” Antonio said all the same; “he’s under obligation to like me. _Especially_ because I’m the younger one—he doesn't get a choice!"

Gilbert was sure Arthur mumbled something under his breath about his own brothers, but it went unheard at least by Antonio, who had made a move to grab his jacket from the living area. He told Gilbert he’d be back later and would bring something for dinner, he wished the both of them a good session and hoped that they would be able to work some things out, and then he was off on his way. Gone with the wind. _Poof._

“I suppose that’s our cue to sit down and get on with it,” Arthur remarked after a few seconds. Gilbert tore his gaze away from the front door that Antonio had just disappeared through, and looked to his (work) partner, nodding. “Are we… just going to work in the living area, yeah?”

“Yeah, that’ll be fine. Do you want a drink?”

“What’s on offer?”

Gilbert thought it over for barely five seconds before suggesting: “Beer?”

* * *

**_15:47pm._ **

Should he have called in advance? It probably would have been wise. But Abel was making a rather impulsive decision here and even as he knocked on Henrique's front door, part of him still felt conflicted about why he was there. Was it his place to discuss this? It wasn't his secret to share but carrying it on his own seemed unwise and unfair on him… Wasn't it…?

The door opened and Henrique looked up at him, stance quickly relaxing as his weight fell onto his left leg and an eyebrow was raised. "And I thought you called _me_ the needy one," the man remarked. Abel would even have said he was smirking. _If I didn't care about him so much, I swear…_ "What can I do for you, Abe? Did you really miss me that much that you needed to swing by unannounced? You're lucky I'm not in the middle of a mee—"

"I need to talk to you," the blonde interrupted. "And it's important."

At that, all of the bravado and playfulness that Henrique had carried in his demeanour was dropped. His shoulders fell, as did his smile, and he was left without words for a few seconds. "Is… Is everything okay?"

"I think we should sit down for this," Abel told him quite simply. "I don't quite know where to begin, but I believe you need to know about what is going on, too."

* * *

**_18:31pm._ **

Arthur had not long left. A couple of beers had not exactly provided them with the divination skills that could help them solve the murder cases, apparently, so they had decided there was no use in keeping up the pretence. Arthur would see him back at the office tomorrow. From there, they could only hope and pray something would change—and ideally, their luck.

 _Three victims. Three crimes. And not one fucking clue as to why any of this is going on._ Gilbert stared down at the spread of crime scene photos on his coffee table, growing more agitated every time he blinked and was met by their dead bodies again. He knew this job was not an easy one—he knew it would be difficult, and he knew the job would always test him and his abilities, day in and day out. But that didn't mean he had to be _accepting_ of the fact that it was hard. It didn't mean he should become apathetic and indifferent.

Gilbert cared. He cared _so fucking much_ about these people, and the people they had left behind. And he never wanted to _stop_ caring.

So how could he put it right? How could he… How could he fix it…?

The front door opened and closed with the same soft slam as usual. Gilbert heard keys jingle and clatter as they went into the bowl, mixed with the light rustling of plastic bags as Antonio entered the main room of the flat. 

"Heya, cariño, how are you getting on?"

Gilbert turned to look at Antonio, who had begun to unload a bag of food shopping, from the looks of it. _I expected him to get pizza or something, is he seriously in the mood for cooking?_ But his better judgement told him not to say that aloud, so he simply responded: "Terribly."

Antonio stopped what he was doing with that single word and gave him a sympathetic look. _Pity, that's what it is, he thinks you're pathetic._ "I'm sorry," Antonio said softly. He left the kitchen area and came down to where Gilbert was, sitting down next to him on the sofa. "But you have been working hard, remember. You've put so much energy into this case—and that, at the very least, shows how determined you are to solve it."

"But what use is putting energy into it when I then have nothing to show for it? No results? No… No answers…?"

"Maybe you just need a fresh perspective," Antonio suggested.

"We've tried, we— we went back through the whole case fresh to try and find any other avenues, but it didn't work," Gilbert replied. He was growing a bit antsy, a bit irritable (not because of Antonio— _never_ because of Antonio) and he hated it. "We just ended up at the same brick wall."

"Okay, but, what I meant was that maybe you need a new pair of eyes," the other clarified. He sent a hand on Gilbert's back and gently rubbed, and _God_ , what Gilbert would do to just be able to drop the conversation, lie down and let Antonio rub the stress away… "You need a third opinion, I think. Someone else to look at what you have."

"Like who?" 

Antonio smiled at him. "Mind if I take a look at your notes with you? I know it's not exactly… _recommended_ , but I bought some wine and a pizza for the oven—" _Oh my god, he_ did _buy pizza, what a Saint!_ "—so we can just sit down, talk it over… It might get some of that stress off of your shoulders."

"You really want to help?"

His smile grew. "I'll just quickly put the pizza in."

Antonio got up and sadly had to take his hand with him, meaning Gilbert's back suddenly felt void of a strange warmth (but no matter; he would simply request later that night that they resume, and maybe he'd even return the favour!). Gilbert let him do what he needed while he sorted out his notes in the meantime, neatening them out once more into some sort of order so they could run through the case chronologically. Maybe the other was right; maybe a new set of eyes would really help a lot. An outsider's view. Someone who had no real knowledge of the case or those linked to it.

Shortly afterwards, Gilbert went to join Antonio in the kitchen, offering to pour them both some wine while Antonio was waiting for the oven to heat up. The offer was more than welcomed. While Gilbert poured them the red (a Tempranillo from Rioja, because you could take the Toni out of Spain, but never the Spain out of Toni, even after twenty-three years), Antonio returned to the bags of shopping he’d brought with him and retrieved a bag of salad leaves, some cucumber and spring onions. _He’s trying to balance out a pizza with salad?_ was what Gilbert first assumed, but then he remembered: _no, he’s just making sure you get some sort of greens in you because you are a stubborn three-year-old child who constantly forgets to take his vitamins._

It was good to have Antonio looking out for him. Someone had to do it, and Gilbert felt like too big a handful for himself to handle, sometimes…

The light for the cooking temperature soon turned off and Gilbert put the pizza into the now perfectly heated oven while Antonio went about making the small salad (which, Gilbert noted, had gained some red colouring in the form of cherry tomatoes, as well as some salty feta). With that soon seen to as well, however, Antonio suggested they make a start while they at least had the wine. So they did just that.

Gilbert started with Sadiq—he started with who he was, what they had learned about him from Heracles and Kiku, the fact that he had family in Turkey, that he worked in security, and that he was killed on that fateful Friday. The scene had been staged, he explained, and the body had been dumped in an alleyway after he had been killed elsewhere.

Curious about this, Antonio asked, rather suddenly, if he could see the crime scene photos.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Gilbert replied in a mumble, lightly scratching at his cheek. “It was pretty messed up, they really did a number on the guy…”

“Gil?”

“...hmm?”

“You remember what I do for a living, right?”

The detective paused. He clicked his tongue. “Right…”

“I see ‘messed up’ every day, and it’s not like I haven’t had to transport bodies away from crime scenes before,” Antonio gently reminded him. “I know it might not be pleasant, but I think I can stomach it.”

“Alright, fine—just don’t blame me if it puts you off your pizza,” Gilbert responded in jest. He was sure that Antonio rolled his eyes, but he paid it no mind, instead going back around the kitchen counters to the coffee table and scooping up all of the photos related to the first crime scene. He set them down on the counter for Antonio to see. “Here, these are all from that first night.”

Antonio set down his wine glass and took the photographs in his hands. He studied them in silence for a short while, just cycling through the pictures until he landed on one that seemed to catch his attention more than the others. And it wasn’t even a photo of the body.

“That’s strange…”

“What is?”

“This symbol thing, on the dumpster. Was that put there by the killer?”

Gilbert nodded. “It was painted in blood, from the victim. Similar symbols were at the other two crime scenes as well, but we haven’t been able to work out what they are or what they mean. They seem so random…”

“Give me five minutes,” was what Antonio said in turn, which made Gilbert frown in confusion. “I think I can help you with this one.”

“You… _can_?” Gilbert questioned. Antonio was already moving, heading down the hall to the study, which he disappeared into briefly.

Gilbert watched him and waited for him to come back out with a piece of paper and a pen. He wasn’t sure why at first, but then Antonio asked for him to get the other photos of the other symbols, all while he took the first and began to redraw it. It was amazing, just how much clearer the symbol became once drawn out in ink rather than blood. And it was also amazing that… _this isn’t something we thought to do._ Not once. Between two detectives. They never redrew the symbols. They never made them fucking clearer (and they never asked for a fucking third opinion, while he thought about it. What else had they not done? Where else had they screwed up so blatantly?).

The second and third symbols quickly followed the first. It was a rough drawing, but Antonio seemed more or less convinced by what he had drawn after a few seconds of studying them, and he let the notes sit on the kitchen counter as he then pulled out his phone and got typing. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t tell Gilbert, which left the detective to simply look at the hand drawings, glass of wine in hand, and wonder _why the fuck didn’t we do this ourselves?_ It seemed that getting that new perspective had been exactly what they’d needed. They’d been too wrapped up in the bigger picture, they’d overlooked the details, the other things sat right under their noses…

It was about two minutes later that Antonio began to write down words by his drawings—just three—and he then pushed the piece of paper towards Gilbert along with his phone, which had been opened onto a specific Wikipedia article. “I believe these are what you’re looking at,” he said to Gilbert, before turning to attend to the pizza.

Gilbert stared down at what he had been given. The names that Antonio had put next to each symbol in order were Eligos, Naberius and Marchosias. The Wikipedia article was titled: ‘List of sigils of demons’. The symbols from the photographs almost perfectly matched the photos on the webpage, only lacking the names of the demons that would have made fhe symbols much easier to identify.

Still, Gilbert was stunned.

Antonio took the pizza out of the oven and transferred it onto a wooden chopping board. As he began to cut it up with the large kitchen knife, he said: “Based on that, I’d say you’re looking at someone who either likes the occult, who had some religious connections, or was otherwise just very _very_ bored.”

“How— How did you work that out so _fast_?” Gilbert questioned. He was impressed but at the same time, utterly bewildered. _Three weeks,_ he told himself, _you’ve had that first symbol for three weeks and he worked it out in three minutes._ “We couldn’t find anything. I tried online, I tried books…”

“And sometimes, all you need is a fresh perspective, right?” Antonio said. “It was just a hunch, honestly. I was a very bored and troubled teenager myself, and this stuff was fascinating to me back then. I spent hours researching this sort of thing—you'd be surprised how much I remember."

“Well, either way, I owe your teenage self a lot,” Gilbert responded, trying not to laugh in disbelief too hard. This whole time, one of the answers he needed had been living in the same apartment, sleeping in the same bed. _Idiot!_ “You have no idea how long I spent trying to work out what the fuck those squiggly lines were, you just— You’ve seriously just saved my skin!”

The brunette gave him a warm smile. “Do I get a reward for all my hard work?” he teased, wine glass going to his lips as he took a sip.

“Yes," Gilbert nodded eagerly, his mind still whirring, his heart still throbbing. "Yes you do, schatz, you _absolutely_ do. Come here already and let me kiss you, dammit!"

Gilbert slept a little easier that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teamwork makes the dream work! someone make Antonio the detective so he can run this case tchh!!
> 
> but yes, at last, Gilbert knows what those infuriating symbols are! that might come in handy now when he has to sift through his suspects. maybe, at last, he will find something (or someone) concrete...
> 
> meanwhile, i wonder what Abel needed to see Henrique about. hmm. guess we'll never know. *ahem* for now..?
> 
> completely irrelevant(?) side note: i made a tumblr.
> 
> why? because unlike Emil, i have gone through my teen years without it, and i have only just found it is not so terrible a place for writing ideas. will i post stuff? i'm hoping to do some shorts/drabbles here and there (which i would naturally crosspost here too), and maybe just some general au idea developing. i have so many multi-chap ideas but there's no way i could ever write them, so it would be nice to at least develop these somewhere. tumblr seems ideal.
> 
> my url is helian-skies if you're curious. my page is empty for now but you neeeeever know. i could even post things from the Alter Ego universe (she says, not knowing what sorta stuff she'd even write... extra scenes, maybe? ships? FLUFF, FOR ONCE? who knows...). aha. okay that's done.
> 
> meanwhile ya boi got serious back pain, i think i trapped a nerve or something but jesus does it hurt. but not as much as my severe lack of motivation to write more chapters hurts me GOD, where has my flow gone?
> 
> all hail chapter 19.   
> only 25 more to go.


	20. Act II - 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert and Arthur make some progress with their investigation into those demon sigils, and they find amongst their suspects a person of interest. Renata continues her own investigations, too, however, and she might have found a useful clue in an interviewee's words...

**_Saturday 4th April. 08:02am._ **

Gilbert burst into the office like he had never burst into the office before. The action certainly startled Arthur, who had been halfway to drinking some lemonade from yet another bottle (though he was lucky that none of it actually spilt, even if the scowl on his face would have suggested otherwise) and simultaneously on the phone (okay, so maybe that was why he was scowling instead, come to think of it).

Even so, Gilbert didn’t stop, and instead marched right up to the whiteboard covered in their case, and he stuck up Antonio’s drawings onto the left-hand side, where the crime scene notes were. He turned to look at Arthur, who was finishing up his call with a quiet ‘thanks for your help’ before he turned his attention to his partner. Arthur was scowling less, but he was no doubt still baffled by Gilbert’s sudden entrance. 

“Progress,” Gilbert stated, killing the silence. 

“Progress?” Arthur repeated quizzically.

“ _Progress_ ,” Gilbert nodded. He pointed at the piece of paper he had just stuck up on the board with the magnet and said: “Now we know what those damned symbols are. Finally! Progress!”

“Okay, okay, calm down, first of all,” the blonde muttered as he stood up and walked over to the board to get a closer look at the drawings and the words. He squinted. Gilbert turned to face the board with him, hands on hips to go with Arthur’s crossed arms. “Eligos, Naberius and Marchosias?”

“Demons,” the other supplied. “These are seals, or sigils or whatever the right term is. The things that were supposedly used to summon demons, as listed in the…” He pulled a separate sticky note from his pocket and referred to what Antonio had written for him; “The Lesser Key of Solomon.”

That seemed to almost amuse Arthur. “You worked this out by yourself?”

“Well, I had a little bit of help…”

“A little?”

“Okay, _fine_ , Toni pretty much worked the whole thing out for me last night. I was very impressed, I won’t lie, and I felt pretty much high for the rest of the evening.”

“I'm impressed,” Arthur remarked, but he didn’t push the subject, to Gilbert’s relief (because beyond that, he couldn't say much else about the actual religious meaning behind these things), and he instead said: “So we’re dealing with demons, are we? You think someone’s summoning demons to come out and kill people?”

" _Hardly_. But whoever put them there at the crime scenes,” Gilbert began to say, posing a possible theory was to why they were put there as he had discussed the night before with his unofficial assistant, “either wanted to relate their crimes to religion or the occult somehow, or they thought it would be a niche way to poke fun at those same things. Either someone very for, or very against organised religion—and most likely a branch of Christianity, if I had to put a name to it."

“So we should go back over our suspect lists, in that case,” Arthur concluded, presumably having seen where Gilbert was going. “There have to be _some_ people who match that criteria.”

“I think we’re looking at someone with some sort of ties to the Church—good or bad, present or past,” he agreed with a steady nod. Gilbert's eyes were fixated on the redeawn symbols. “Any lead we find, we have follow up without question. It doesn’t matter how unlikely it seems, or how dubious the link. We can’t afford to not check under every single stone.”

Arthur had vehemently concurred.

They spent the next five minutes brainstorming using the list of people they had gone over so far. Not many of their key witnesses and possible suspects seemed to connect to the seals, or what they stood for or could represent. The problem was, they had hardly interrogated everyone they had spoken to thus far about their religious beliefs, whether they believed in Heaven and Hell, or if they had a lot of free time on their hands and like to look into things like magic, the occult and murder. _Funnily enough_. 

There was, however, one name that stuck out from the ones they already knew: one Mr. Ivan Braginsky.

According to the notes that the detectives had taken that day, Ivan had both recognised Yao and had previously employed Sadiq, who was also a regular at his cosy little bar. And as it stood, there was not yet anything to say that Emil hadn’t visited there with his classmates to have a drink. Yet even more importantly, Gilbert recalled the moment Ivan had walked into the bar, where they had been speaking to his employee, and what they had been met with. The Russian had been wearing a crucifix and, if he had not been mistaken, a different pendant. A pentagram of sorts. It was a curious thing to wear at the same time as a gold crucifix, wasn’t it…? 

And it could of course have meant absolutely nothing. But it could also have meant _everything_.

Based on what little information they had otherwise collected on the man—most of which simply consisted on what days he was at work, the rumours of a second business he ran, and also the fact that on more than one occasion, Braginsky had voiced many complaints and criticisms about traditional religions (mostly online, mostly on Twitter) Gilbert felt that was strong enough for them to work off of. They could follow this lead. And hopefully— _please, God!_ —they could finally get some solid answers to their most harrowing questions.

When this case was all over and done with, Gilbert was going to request a short holiday to recover. He had never felt such an intense burnout in his life—even at university!

“Looks like we’re going to be heading back over to the Matryoshka,” Gilbert stated as the other detective arrived at that same conclusion. “We’ll see if the bartender is there as well, see if he has any more information for us. Tolys, was it? He was helpful enough last time."

“It’s early, though,” Arthur hurried to point out, “there won’t be anyone there for a couple of hours based on the movements they gave us.”

That would only be a minor setback. Gilbert would not let his steam run out, and so, if Braginsky had to wait, then there were still other avenues they needed to venture down to help fill in other gaps of their massive jigsaw puzzle.

“Then I say we go and see Emil’s classmates and see if they ever visited that bar first," Gilbert thus suggested, ticking another of his boxes, "and _then_ we can go and find Braginsky. Fingers crossed, we’ll get somewhere with this one.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a good feeling about this," Arthur assured him with a small but confident smile. "We’ll get there, Gil, I know it. Now come on—let’s grab a hot drink on the way and see what those students can tell us, eh? _God_ , I love knocking on doors and forcing people out of bed— _especially_ youths."

Gilbert laughed with him as they left. For now, he would hold onto Arthur's good feeling, take advantage of his optimism, and keep his chin up. Today could be the day. Today could lead to an arrest. Today could put a serial killer behind bars. _God, do me this one damn favour, please!_

* * *

**_09:17am._ **

Ludwig answered the phone call without really thinking about it, his focus glued to the computer screen as he worked away trying to rush through a whole inbox worth of emails. People were so ridiculously needy for _adults_ , but he supposed it was at least better than people hounding him in person, pestering him, knocking on his door every five seconds… Working from home was _definitely_ a luxury.

He put the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he said as he hit ‘send’ on the eighth email he had had to send in the last… seventeen minutes of being online. 

“Hi, Ludwig?”

“Antonio?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” the Spaniard greeted through the phone. Ludwig could practically hear his smile. “Is this a good time? I wasn’t sure if you were working…”

“I currently am, unfortunately,” the blonde said, swallowing down a sigh as a notification popped up on his screen, alerting him to a reply to one of his newly-sent emails. _How are they typing so fast?_ “Was it something important?”

Antonio took a moment to think, a drawled out ‘uhh’ escaping him before he said: “Well, not like an emergency-level of importance, no," he decided, "but it's still something I'd like to talk to you about today. And it's important to _me_. So… Yeah."

 _Not cryptic at all._ But Ludwig understood as well that Antonio probably just didn't want to bother him too much because he was aware that Ludwig was working. It was fair enough. And if it was something that Antonio felt was that important, and that he wanted to speak to Ludwig about it specifically, then he was hardly going to say no. For all he knew, it could have been about Gilbert, and Ludwig had been starting to worry about him, especially after he got a call out the other week while they'd been over for dinner.

Even though he hadn't said so aloud that night, Ludwig had been able to tell that Antonio was upset—understanding, because the phone call could never be helped, but most definitely upset as well. They were so close. Ludwig could see that. He could see that Gilbert and Antonio were dedicated to each other as well as their jobs. He was just personally worried about the stress his brother was facing and the possible repercussions on those around him—something that his brother was not the best at spotting, and something that other people were just as good at hiding.

"In that case," Ludwig said to the other, ignoring a second notification that came through on his desktop, "do you have work as well today?"

"Yeah, I start at ten," Antonio responded. _Not very long, in that case._

"Okay. Then, is it something that needs more than five minutes to discuss?"

"It shouldn't take that long, no."

"So we'll talk about it now, just to get it out of the way," Ludwig stated, arriving at the only valid solution to this very simple conundrum; "at least then you won't have this looming over you while you're on shift. That seems like it would not be very beneficial to you as a professional."

"Thank you, Ludwig." He could hear the other's smile and visualise it in his head. "I appreciate this a lot."

"Of course. Now go on, tell me: what can I help you with?"

* * *

**_11:38am._ **

“Final question, I promise you—you’ve been a big help so far,” Renata said to the bartender as she finished jotting down the last couple of things he had told her in her black notepad. After this, she sincerely hoped she wouldn’t have to bother the man again. He seemed fed up as it was—she was sure her presence hardly made his day any better (though she _had_ claimed to be police, which probably had not helped). “This is a bit more general, but have you noticed any strange behaviour around here? Both in the bar, outside the bar, and just in this neighbourhood?”

“I don’t really think so, not in recent memory,” Tolys replied. It didn’t seem like he was being purposefully evasive, so she heard him out. “The only thing that would probably be relevant is that the three victims have all come in at some point or another in the last few weeks. Not at the same time, I don’t think, but they’ve all… been here.”

Renanta made a note of that; she felt that the bar could have been used as some sort of hunting ground for the killer, or otherwise, it could just as easily have been coincidence. She saw little value in pushing that topic for the moment. All three of them could just have easily shopped in the same supermarket, or gone to the same doctor’s, or visited the same shop. It was simply not a fact she would cling onto too tightly, for fear of keeping her scope too narrow.

“There’s not much I can say about the neighbourhood, either,” the brunette pressed on, weight shifting from one foot to another. Renata had caught him off guard, while it seemed he had been on his way out somewhere—and in a bit of a rush, at that. She felt sort of bad… “The East Side has its characters. That’s just how it’s always been. Really, it isn’t too surprising to hear all the murders have happened on this side of the river; it’s like two different worlds…”

It was a fair point.

But an even better point had come in the form of two vital words: _East Side_. The words had become so prominent after the third body had been found and the trend had been established. Three bodies, all on one side of the river. Even the kid had still been left on the eastern riverbank, even if the general area had been very different to the previous victims. There had to be something to it. There had to be a meaning or clue behind dumping the bodies on the East Side, or perhaps even killing them there—and Renata had a gut instinct that such an arrangement had to be of convenience to the killer. It had to be easier to do it that way. And if the killer wasn't dumping bodies on the East Side because it was _easier_ for them, then that meant…

A lightbulb switched on in the back of Renata’s mind. She thanked Tolys for all his time and said he could carry on and do whatever it was he needed to do—that would be all. 

Meanwhile, in her notepad, she got back to scribbling down all of the thoughts she was having as soon as they crawled into her mind. _So many, too many…_ But it was good. It was good that she had struck this. _God bless you, Tolys!_

The journalist got back on track and started walking away from the bar. For now, she would go back home and do some online investigations. There was little else the people could tell her for the moment, but she at least knew what it was she needed to do.

As she rounded the corner, Renata caught a glimpse of two people she had been lucky to avoid so far: the _actual_ detectives. This was too close to comfort for her, but they seemed wrapped up in conversation as they walked towards the front entrance of the bar, too busy to notice her. _Good_. She used the opportunity to carry on on her way, her hat tugged down a little further on her head to almost fully obscure her hair, with her jacket hugged tight around her. 

If they saw her, they didn’t recognise her. That was how she needed it to stay.

* * *

**_11:46am._ **

As Arthur knocked on the door, Gilbert stood attentively at his side, looking back at the tall city half behind him. There were only a few people around—a couple walking a dog, a cyclist, a woman heading towards the main bridge—and it was nice that it was quiet. The West Side was always loud and bustling. The East Side was like that, in its own way—at night, it was alive with _life_ , with people enjoying themselves, like a sort of Paradise. The West Side was glorified, bigger, more built-up, more refined… 

Don’t get him wrong, Gilbert loved living where he lived. But the East Side still had its appeals. It still had a strange charm to it. Had it really been so long since they had moved to the other side…?

The door to the bar was open. Arthur suggested they go in and scope it out to see if anyone was around—after all, it was not the best neighbourhood to leave an establishment filled to the brim with alcohol and cash unlocked. Someone had to be lurking around somewhere! So Gilbert agreed and allowed him to take the lead. _On his head be it_.

As expected, the bar area was void of life. 

Arthur went towards the doors and called out for someone, hoping that he would get some response from an employee, or, more ideally, the big man himself. After a few short moments, in which Arthur lingered by the door labelled ‘staff only’ and Gilbert held his ground on the main floor that lay in the centre of the room, someone did eventually peek their head out of the back area. And, as though God had finally answered one of Gilbert’s prayers during this case, it was Mr. Branginsky himself.

He seemed rather surprised to see the two detectives again.

“Hello again, officers,” he said as he entered the same room. The necklaces that Gilbert had glimpsed that last time they had been there were nowhere to be seen; the Russian wore a dark turtleneck jumper. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We wanted to talk to you regarding another person of interest,” Arthur explained to him (he and Gilbert had discussed this thoroughly, and had established there were still some things to be asked before they could just pounce and say anything too untowards). From his pocket, he pulled a photograph of Emil to show the bigger man. “Do you recognise this kid?"

Ivan studied the photograph for a few seconds, before pulling an unsure face and shaking his head. "I cannot say that I do."

"Well, he's another victim in our ongoijg investigation, and having spoken to some friends of his this morning," Arthur pressed on, just to make the picture a little clearer, "they veey helpfully confirmed for us that they came in here the night he went missing."

"I see…"

"I don't suppose you managed to get your cameras fixed since the last time we came to see you, Mr. Braginsky?"

"Not the ones you would need, no," Ivan muttered between the three of them. And then he sighed through his nostrils, shaking his head to himself in a sort of disdain, almost. "I really do apologise that I cannot provide anything concrete for you, detectives. What day was it that they all came in?"

"Wednesday night, last week."

"Ahh, I was definitely here, in that case," the tall Russian mused, though it seemed to mostly aimed towards himself based on how voice had quietened down. "I would have been in the office working, since Tolys was not in to cover management…"

"And you didn't come out at any point and see this kid?" Arthur pressed.

"I may have, I may not have—the problem is that it was over a week ago," Ivan reminded the detectives, much to their distaste, "and in the ten days since then, I have seen a lot more faces. I do not remember that night very well, anymore."

"Yet, you're certain you were working in your office."

"Call me a man of routine, but that's what my Wednesday nights tend to look like. You can ask Tolys."

"Who you said was not working that night," the blonde detective stated. He was clearly growing more agitated (as was Gilbert, in all fairness), tucking the photograph back away as his tone changed. A once more neutral face turned southwards, with a slight frown beginning to crumple on his brow. It was quite the sight—a tall Russian versus the short Brit. "I can't tell if you're being difficult for any particular reason, Braginsky, or if you genuinely are just this thick, but these games are getting a bit tiring now."

The underlying accusation saw Ivan's own face drop. He looked down his nose at Arthur, his gaze steadily hardening at the other. Gilbert would not have wanted to be on the receiving end of that—no siree.

"We need a straight answer," the German spoke up all the same, so that he didn't feel like he was throwing his partner to the wolves. "All three victims have this bar in common. If you don't recognise the kid, then maybe you'll recognise—" He took out his own pictures, this time, and these ones of the various demon sigils. "—these instead?"

Ivan didn't even try to humour him. He gave a quick glance at the three photographs that Gilbert held up, before quietly scoffing and saying: "Even if I did, I believe I am currently within my right to withhold that information. Frankly, officers, I do not appreciate the accusatory tone currently being used against me. _I,_ " he stated, very slowly, lowly, and clearly, so not a single syllable was missed, "am guilty of nothing."

To Gilbert, all that screamed was 'I know exactly what those symbols are', however. Ivan had become defensive very quickly, like a threatened animal that had been backed into a corner. He was hiding something, Gilbert was sure, and he was sure that Arthur was thinking the same thing. The question was: _what does he know?_

“I am sick and tired of people showing up and asking me things, as if I have anything to do with this case of yours,” the Russian went off on a little rant. Whatever frustration he was letting out seemed to have built up over a small period of time—not just in the last three minutes the police had been there. Gilbert briefly wondered if the situation would escalate and how he would potentially have to defuse it. “ _Yes,_ Sadiq worked here, I knew Yao, and that Emil kid came by with friends every now and then—but that is as close as I get to your case. I have _nothing_ to do with your murders…”

Lost for what to say or how to respond, the detectives were quiet for a minute as Ivan stared them down. So he was going to be adamant. He was going to be insistent. But Gilbert was convinced he knew what those symbols were, and as he had confessed, he knew who Sadiq, Yao and Emil were, so—

Hold on.

“Yao and Emil?” he repeated in questioning. 

“Yes,” Ivan said; “your victims.”

“As I’m aware, but how come you suddenly know their names?”

A pause. A slow inhale and exhale. “Because about half an hour ago, some woman came in here asking me about the three same people—your three victims. And I sent her on her way, telling her to not come back.”

Gilbert looked to Arthur and gave a nod. _That woman is starting to cause us some serious grief_ , he told himself. But even so, who was to say that that was where he got the names from? They only had his word to go on, and anyway—

“Our third victim’s name was not publicly released,” Arthur pointed out with a sceptical expression smothering his face, “so I find it curious that this woman supposedly told you who they were.”

“What would you like me to say, detective? Perhaps someone in your station is a bit too loose-lipped,” the Russian said in a near-snarl. _Still defensive, still cornered_. “That is all I have to say.”

But that was not something either detective was prepared to accept.

“Do you or do you not recognise these symbols?” Gilbert asked once more. 

Ivan said nothing.

“Did you lie to us the last time we visited when you said you knew nothing about Dr. Wang, and have you lied again today, saying that you don’t recognise Mr. Bondevik?”

Ivan said nothing.

“In which case,” Arthur said, “would you mind accompanying us to the station to answer some further questions?”

Ivan said nothing, but he didn’t put up a fight either as Arthur and Gilbert took control of the situation and escorted him out towards the car. 

As they walked, Gilbert wondered if this could be it—if this could be their answer, if _he_ could be their _killer_. It had only taken three bodies… But then, he also had to wonder, what was that mysterious woman up to? She had been at the university, and she had been here—had she been speaking to the others as well? To Honda, to Katsaros? And to who else? How far had she gotten? And how come she was in the same places, seemingly at the same stage of investigation when she was just some amateur?

It was just another mystery for them to solve.

For the time being, however, they would simply have to focus on the very tall and now selectively-mute mystery walking between them. Hopefully, they could crack him, and sooner rather than later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no it has not taken me 3 weeks to update, don't be ridiculous.
> 
> ...
> 
> okay i'm sorry, pls forgive me, i just hit a massive brick wall and then got into a different writing project for a while (which i have started a series on my profile if you're curious hehe) and then i came back to this work and deleted the latest chapter i wrote because i HATED it, and now here we are, because i found my writing rhythm again, and i am READY TO UPDATE MORE! YES! (i mean, don't expect multiple updates each week, but defs don't worry about waiting nearly a month again either lmao).
> 
> i hope you're all well anywho! i wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who has read this, who has commented, who has left kudos, because you guys honestly keep me going with this and remind me that this work is so worth finishing! you're all amazing and i love you <3
> 
> remember to leave any theories in a comment for me! do you think the boys have got their guy? what do you think Renata has found? what do you think these demon symbols mean? i'm dead curious!
> 
> i look forward to seeing you in the next update! hasta <3


	21. Act II - 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan is in custody, the police's prime suspect. With his lawyer and counsel at his side during the interview, however, it may not end how the detectives had hoped.

**_Saturday 4th April. 16:32pm._ **

Ivan had resisted any further questioning and had instead demanded his phone call earlier that afternoon. He was still fuming from the events of that morning and being hounded not once but _twice_ by people who seemed to only want to accuse him of something sinister. And he did not appreciate that. He did not like being treated like a criminal. Not for murder. Not for _three_ murders,especially when one of the victims had been...

He had been allowed a phone call that afternoon to request his lawyer, who he hoped would be able to help him get the police off his back once and for all. Ivan had an ace up his sleeve, and he was sure that when those cocky detectives were met with it, they would learn their place.

No one accused Ivan Braginsky of murder.

His lawyer was due soon. He had made it clear that he would not talk to the detectives until he arrived, and that as soon as he did, then they could all sit down and have a lovely little chat. The look on their faces had been rather amusing, it had nearly torn him out of his foul mood. Almost. But that satisfying moment he was sure would come soon enough. He just had to wait a bit longer in that damned holding cell…

It was maybe fifteen minutes later that the door opened and he was met by the German detective—Beilschmidt—and then, to his delight, Francis, his lawyer and acquaintance. If anyone would be able to help him, he knew it was Bonnefoi.

“Ten minutes and we’ll have a free room so we can all talk,” the detective said, before he left them to it, without casting either of them another glance or sparing them another word.

Glad that it was now just the two of them, Ivan invited Francis to take a seat on the bench next to him, which was an offer the blonde naturally accepted, and he set down his briefcase on his lap. If Ivan didn’t know him better, he would have said Francis was uncomfortable—but this was his element, really. The problem probably lay more so in the fact that…

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” the lawyer questioned. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

“In a minute,” Ivan responded; “but first I need to know if you were able to get what I asked you for.”

Francis gave a nod and opened his briefcase, pulling out a file and handing it over to his client. He also then pulled out a CD drive, just to show it to Ivan and prove he had followed his instructions word-for-word. Ivan felt a wave of relief wash over him. A very, very big wave.

“Tolys was a big help,” Francis told him. “He got all of this together for me nice and quickly, and has offered to come and pick you up once this is all sorted. The bar is also ready to open today if you want to—but he has kept the doors closed in your absence. I trust that is not an issue?”

“No, no, I’m glad he did. It was the safe thing to do given that there was no knowing how long I would be gone,” Ivan reassured him, though, even if it had been an issue, there was hardly anything he could do about it now. “Is he alright?”

“Worried about you, I think. He came back to the bar and you were gone, he had no idea what had happened until I showed up.”

“Oh… I should… probably make it up to him,” Ivan mumbled sheepishly. “I didn’t even think to leave him a note before I left…”

“Before you were marched out, you mean.”

“Ahh, I would hardly say they forced me,” he responded. “It was just easier for everyone to walk with them. And now, with the help of these—” He tapped his fingers on the file in his hands. “—they will understand and they will back off. That’s all I want. To be… To be left alone.”

 _To be left alone._ It was perhaps a bit wishful of him to think that would be possible in its entirety—to be granted complete solitude. But he was fed up with people asking questions, with people staring at him when he walked down the street, with that glint of fear and intimidation that he saw in the eyes of othees when they saw him for the first time. Ivan did not want to be perceived as some sort of monster. He did not want to be perceived as a bad person.

He had made mistakes in life. He knew that. And he wasn’t the only one, was he? Ivan only wanted to remedy it, but just as things in his life were turning around, it had all backfired in his face. Things had gone wrong. Ivan had been granted a sort of solitude he had not wanted, and now that all eyes were on him, he only wanted to sink further into that quiet hole. He had Tolys to look out for him and vice versa, and he knew he could trust Francis, but beyond that…?

Francis gave him a soft smile in the meantime, which helped quell the Russian and bring him back to the present. “Then if that is what you want, then that,” he stated, “is exactly what we are going to get you, Ivan. I can promise you that much.”

“Thank you, Francis. Thank you.”

“It is simply my job. Now—care to tell me the details of what happened this morning?”

“Of course, of course, sorry. Yes. Well…” He took a deep breath. “It started when this strange woman came into the bar…”

* * *

**_16:46pm._ **

From what Francis had gathered, Gilbert and Arthur had made a bit of a mess of this situation. Or at the very least, they had gotten the wrong end of the stick.

The issue was that the detectives were clearly struggling. Francis knew quite well that things were moving slow, and given that they were heading soon into a month since the first murder, he wasn’t entirely surprised that they were maybe grasping at some straws. But he could not so easily cut them some slack. There had been no real grounds for bringing Ivan in, nor had they demonstrated any sort of basic decorum towards the man. 

Ivan had been guided towards a holding cell, and that had been that. His phone call was awarded to him at around two o’clock that afternoon, which was late, as far as he was concerned, and the detectives had not properly explained on what grounds they were holding him there.

Frankly, he was disappointed. Disappointed and disgusted.

And, more than anything, he had just expected _better_ from Gilbert.

In the end, Gibert had come back for them as promised and directed them towards one of the interrogation rooms. Ivan took a seat on one side as guided, Francis moving down next to him with his briefcase (file and CD tucked back inside it safely) being set on the table. Gilbert sat down opposite them. Arthur joined them two minutes later with the offer of water for anyone who needed it—though no one did.

It seemed the conversation would be going on the record. The usual introduction was done, completed with time, date, names of attendees—the template script that Francis was far too used to. With the introductions done, nevertheless, the detectives wasted little time in getting to the point. They said they were investigating three murders—serial killings—and that Ivan had come under suspicion on the grounds of evidence collected regarding victims, the fact that his bar connected all the victims and was the last place at least one of them had been seen the night of their death, and that he had decided to withhold information that had only added to his conspicuousness. 

Were they fair grounds? Francis was not going to say aloud. Yes, it seemed that some of the things Ivan had said may not have helped, but there was such a thing as miscommunication and privacy. He was sure this was not the result Ivan had ever wanted but the Russian would make sure it went no further. Francis would help him with that.

“Mr. Braginsky,” Gilbert said, drawing Francis from his whirring thoughts, “in front of you are six photographs of our three victims—two of each. One photo is of them from the last few months. The other is post-mortem, taken by the pathologist at the crime scene.” 

The photos were extremely unpleasant. Gruesome. Stomach-churning. While the post-mortem photos showed only the face of each victim, that did not distract from splatters of blood, nor the signs of strangulation that lay on the neck of the latest victim, nor the fact that they were, most blatantly, dead. The detectives were showing them death in its most visceral form. They were showing them these poor victims in the hope that maybe it would stir something in Ivan—a confession of guilt, they may have hoped—but it would do no such thing.

"Firstly, do you recognise the symbols in the crime scene photos?" the German asked him. He set down an extra sheet of paper onto the desk, narrating his move to the recorder, and added: "These are clearer drawings of each symbol in case you need them."

Ivan stared at the diagram. Francis did as well. He did not personally know what they were, other than the tag of a sick, cruel person. He had seen many pictures like these in evidence, in a courtroom, in an interview room much like the one he was currently in, and he did not believe Ivan was the sort of person who would mark his work, make a display of it, claim to be some sort of artist (though he wasn't sure that Ivan was exactly capable of mutiple murders, full-stop; and he knew, in this specific case, he really wasn't).

"Not specfically," the Russian responded, "but if I had to hazard a guess, they are probably in some way related to demons. But I am not in the habit of trying to summon fictional creatures."

"We're here to talk about murders, not seances," Kirkland remarked. Only a big-headed fool would stare down someone like Braginsky. Francis almost wanted to tell him to stop playing 'bad cop' before the questioning got more intense, and he came to regret it. "You know what they are."

"Like I said: it is an educated guess," Ivan stated, holding his ground. 

"Alright. Why do you wear a crucifix when you have an open distaste towards religion and Christianity specifically?" the blonde then pressed. "I cite from two of your social media accounts: 'Religion steals our freedom and enslaves us to false gods and real-world dictators'; 'The next time a Christian preaches at me, I may assist them in getting a walk-in appointment with their maker'. Any comment, Mr. Braginsky?"

Ivan quietly scoffed. "I am not the first person to take a disliking to such things," he stated quite plainly, his tone mimicking disinterest and boredom. "As for why I wear a crucifix... It is for a more personal reason. Out of sentiment."

 _For his sister._ Francis knew this already. Ivan may not explain it to the detectives himself, and he hoped they would not press for an answer, but that crucifix was the only thing he had with him to remind him of his previous life in Europe, in Russia, before he had to leave. Even Ivan had a soft spot. Even Ivan knew what loss and grief was. 

To spare him, Francis decided to step in before Kirkland jumped down the poor man's throat any further. "Detectives, my client was brought in for a reason. You wanted to question him about this murder case, and I would recommend focusing on that rather than delving into his internet history before you have addressed that," he told them. "Everyone is allowed their own beliefs." 

Gilbert nodded at Francis and spared his partner a glance ( _hopefully, that means 'shut the fuck up' in secret detective language_ ) before he took back the reins of the interviewing: “In that case," he began to ask, "do you recognise any of the people in the photographs in front of you?” 

Francis allowed the silence to fall. He had already discussed with Ivan what would likely be asked in that room, and Ivan knew what he was doing. When Ivan had finished telling his recount of that morning to the lawyer, the last thing he had said was: _you are a witness to whatever happens next_. Whatever happened, however ugly, however damning, however nerve-wrecking…

“I do.”

_And so it begins._

“Sadiq Adnan worked the odd shift at the bar for me, but he came in more often as a regular with friends,” Ivan told the detectives. He paused, he hesitated, but he caught himself before he could get that wall all the way up. So he added very hastily: “And I also knew Yao Wang.”

The detectives seemed stunned by the revelation. 

“He was a good friend. One of very few I have ever been lucky to have,” the Russian went on. There was evidently no point in waiting for a prompt; the question, _who was he to you?_ would have hung in the air anyway. “We have known each other for only about a year or so, but I trusted him and I… It was special.”

“Special in what way?” Kirkland asked him. “Being close friends after only ‘a year or so’ does not seem like your typical friendship, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You cannot put a time frame on friendship,” Ivan threw back at him, and rightly so. “We clicked very well, we had similar ideas, opinions, interests... If that is not what you personally look for in a friend, detective, then I can’t help that. But for me and Yao, it was what we bonded on—damning society over a drink, and laughing while we did it.”

“That may be so, but you avoided my question.”

“He was a _friend_ to me. That was all I ever wanted. If he thought it could be something more—if he _wanted_ something more,” the Russian said, stiffening slightly as he spoke, but his voice only softening and quieting down. He had reacted similarly when Francis had been asking about Yao, as well, “then that is something only he could say. But like I said: I am lucky— _was_ lucky...—to know him.”

Gilbert slowly nodded. “So that night he came to the bar, and you said he was meeting someone…?”

“He was coming to see me."

"But what happened that night? Because he obviously didn't stay at the bar, did he?"

Ivan shook his head. "He stayed for a bit and we spoke like we always did. He was mostly complaining about work, about dealing with annoying people," the Russian chuckled fondly, but sadly, to himself. He was remembering the last time he had seen Yao, after all. That couldn't have been easy. "It was maybe midnight when he said he needed to go home. I offered to take him, but he insisted he should stretch his legs, because he only lives a few blocks away..."

"And you didn't see him or hear from him again after that? That was normal behaviour?" Gilbert questioned further, his tone gentle, almost understanding. 

"Normal, yes... But no, I did not hear from him again," Ivan said. The reminiscing smile on his face slowly dropped. "He was not in the habit of informing me when he got home. I just assumed he was fine, that he'd made it..."

From the table, Ivan reached for the photograph of Yao—the one where he was still alive. Francis watched how careful he was with the picture, how tender his touch was, and a small ache blossomed in his chest. Ivan may have said that any feelings Yao may or may not have had were unreciprocated, but that didn’t mean the Russian didn’t care. The way he looked at that face, full of colour and warmth and life… He was amazed that Ivan did not cry. He looked close. He looked so, so close to letting it burst out of him.

No one disturbed him in those few seconds. Even the detectives seemed to find some ounce of respect for what was happening opposite them. It was only when he set the photograph down again that the next important question was asked:

“So on that note, is there any reason you can think of that would mean someone would do this to Yao?”

Francis felt a bubble of outrage. He wanted to burst out, say something against this blatant idiocy ( _because why have they brought him in, just to ask him that? When they have treated him so much like a suspect_ ), but Ivan stopped him before he could interject. _Let me handle this_ , was what his eyes said, and the lawyer knew he could not control his client. Ivan knew what he was doing. 

Or, so Francis hoped.

Ivan cleared his throat. "The problem with Yao," he began to say, and Francis could see how those four words reeled in the detectives, "is that he was… not designed for the city. Certainly not this one, at least." The detectives quickly recomposed themselves. "The city embittered him, made him more grouchy, more angry inside. He became short-tempered. Irritable. And Yao was always very outspoken. He did not care who he offended when he spoke his mind, and so it would not be a surprise if something he had once said or did had upset someone."

"To the point of murder?"

"People have killed for many petty reasons, detective," he said to Kirkland. "You should know that. And anger and rage… they can turn a person mad."

"And did Dr. Wang ever say anything untowards about you or to you that may have made you angry?"

"No." The Russian barely hesitated to give that answer. "Yao was very nice—to me at least. _Kind._ He did not think of me as intimidating or shallow, and I was grateful that he was willing to take the time to get to know me. Not many people have done me such kindness before. He _listened_ to me…"

By that point, Francis had grown rather tired. He saw no point in the detectives bothering Ivan any longer, or in Ivan tormenting himself to remember things for the incompetent bafoons sitting opposite them for no good reason. So, he made sure to stop Ivan from saying anything more, and he turned the table onto the detectives.

"I hate to ask, detectives, but on what grounds exactly have you brought my client in on today?" he questioned, trying not to glare too hard at them both. "Because so far, I have seen no clear indication that Mr. Braginsky is truly guilty of anything. You have provided no evidence against him."

Francis was not too unsurprised that it was Kirkland to come back to him on the matter rather than Gilbert, who seemed a bit more resigned by this stage in the interrogation; "He has lied to the police on two occasions," the blonde stated, "which can be viewed as an obstruction of justice, and he has actively withheld information regarding one of our victims. His bar links all three victims, his recent social media activity is rather damning, and he currently fits the criteria matching our killer."

"And you have reason to believe that that makes him guilty of murder? When you have nothing concrete?"

"He _lied_ about knowing Mr. Wang, and has refused to answer questions pertaining to the case that we believe he is perfectly capable of answering—"

"And yet," the lawyer said, cutting the other blonde off, "you have failed to ask him the most vital question in a murder inquiry. Haven't you?"

The way the detectives looked at each other was almost comical. Gilbert only seemed to grow more ashamed and embarrassed by the whole affair, keeping silent, and the scowl that had cemented itself to Kirkland's face was impeccable. Truly, a moment Francis wished he could take a photo of. _What an arrogant, conceited brute of a man…_

With a quiet huff, Francis opened his briefcase and withdrew both the file and the CD, which he set onto the table. Gilbert told the tape recorder that the lawyer had presented them with such items, and he made a silent gesture for Francis to continue. He really didn't want to hate one of his oldest friends for something like this, but it came with the territory, and… Gilbert had never been so sloppy before, to the point where he had forgotten to ask a suspect:

"Mr. Braginsky, where were you the night of the three murders: Friday 13th March; Wednesday 18th March; Wednesday 25th March?" Francis asked his client, eyeing the two officers as he listed off the various dates. It seemed their massive oversight finally went noticed.

"Working," Ivan replied, "in my office."

"And the proof?" Kirkland requested.

"The file contains some stills, all time-stamped, during the evenings of both Mr. Adnan's and Mr. Bondevik's respective death and disappearance. You'll see my client was present throughout the night until around three in the morning," Francis explained to them both, very carefully. "The CD contains the full footage from the back office. As for Dr. Wang—well, I think it is clear that Mr. Braginsky would not bring any harm to a man he evidently felt was a close friend."

With that all said, there was little else the detectives could do. A quick flick through the stills lined up with their chronology, and it seemed that they now had nothing tangible ( _did they have anything tangible, anyway?_ ) that they could stick on Ivan. _Good._ It felt good to put someone like that—someone inconsiderate and unrelenting—in their place, and to pull the rug out from under their feet. Friend or not.

The detectives said nothing more, not right away. Gilbert killed the recording and took the files in his hand, muttering something under his breath, before he looked to Francis. "We'll clean this up, process him, and set him on his way. Thank you for coming in," the German said.

"I'm just doing my job—and doing it properly," went back Francis' off-handed comment. 

A small part of him did not want to lash out, but… the most basic thing had been missed. The _most basic thing!_ Two detectives, and seemingly not one brain cell between them! Francis knew that his disappointment lingered in his eyes from the way that Gilbert went quiet again and shied away from him, never meeting his gaze. In the end, all four of them left the interrogation room together and went towards reception to return Ivan's things from holding.

There, Ivan was busy signing for his things and making idle conversation with the receptionist while he did so, before was given back his phone and keys. He thanked the woman and then thanked Francis again, before shooting a more icy gaze past the Frenchman and on towards the detectives loitering next to them. Francis told him it was no trouble, and that Ivan knew who to go to if he ever ran into more trouble. With that in mind, Ivan was on his way, a free man once again.

"Fran, I'm seriously sorry about thi—"

"Now is not the time, Gilbert," Francis cut him off, turning on his heel to stare at his friend. His emotions were getting the better of him; he couldn't stop himself, the venom, the disgust. "I can't say how embarrassed I am that that just had to happen, and to _you_ of all people."

"I-It's just the case is—"

"The case is going slow, it's hard—I get that." But Francis still shook his head in disapproval, like a parent telling off a child. He recalled doing this once when Gilbert, at university, had skipped an assignment to go and get high with some certain individuals from his class—a mistake he did not make twice. "However," he pressed on, "the one thing you never do is accuse someone of murder— _multiple_ murders—with no concrete evidence. _Especially_ not someone like Braginsky, do you understand? You are lucky that embarrassment was all you were served."

"Now hang on a second, you're being rather unfair on Gilbert; it isn't his fault—"

Francis was not even going to _attempt_ to hear out Kirkland and all his bullshit. No way in Hell. Not even on his deathbed. He would sooner quit his job, sell all his belongings and start living rough.

"Detective Kirkland," he therefore said, cutting off yet another police officer (though _two_ was hardly near his record), "I know we are not overly familiar with each other, but trust me when I say this: you are deplorable. Miserable. Stuck-up and simply _rude._ And you ought to learn some manners when it comes to handling key witnesses, unless you would prefer to have a string of complaints submitted against you and a suspension written up in your file."

Kirkland, to his surprise, did not respond. _All bark and not bite_. Clearly he was not a detective worth Francis' time. How he was even a _detective_ was something he could not comprehend. 

Taking that as his cue to leave as well, Francis bid them both a _joyful and pleasant evening,_ before waltzing right out of that damned police station. It was only as he walked and got some fresh air, however, that he acknowledged that he would need to call Gilbert later on and apologise to him for what he had said. He _had_ been tough, even if he still thought the other's actions were uncalled for and unjustified, but he also had to appreciate that Gilbert was under enormous stress. And stress could severely tamper with a person's mind, with their thought processes, with their common sense. Gilbert _was_ a good man and a good detective. He was just overwhelmed.

Really, the last thing Francis wanted to do was lose another friend to another emotionally-charged argument, when it could easily have been dealt with in a calm, mature manner. He didn't want to lose Gilbert, as well...

* * *

**_17:24pm._ **

"He shouldn't get to talk to us like that," Arthur stated as the detectives returned to their office, huffing. Gilbert could see that Francis had gotten under the other's skin just as clearly as he could see how mortified Arthur was as well by how _royally_ they had fucked up.

"But he's right," he thus reasoned, "we did a really stupid thing, and he did right by calling us out on it. I mean seriously, what the fuck were we thinking, Kirkie? We screwed it..."

"We were thinking that we were making progress, we thought he had something—the bastard had _lied_ to us! He was being evasive, and even in that interview, he felt smug! I don't like him and I don't trust him."

Gilbert sighed as he leaned against his desk, his arms folding across his chest. "I know," he mumbled, "I know he did and I know how you feel. Him lying was wrong. But we were very wrong, too, and we just... have to live with that for now. And that leaves us exactly back where we started: lost. _Again_."

The silence that fell betwee them in their cold, neutral office lasted all of five seconds.

"You know, there's still that woman," Arthur pointed out, "the one Ivan said had already visited him this morning. I'd love to know what she's doing."

"Investigating like us, apparently."

"Causing trouble, more like. If she goes around bothering witnesses before we can get to them, then she closes them off, she makes them harder for us to talk to as the actual investigating detectives. And she's putting herself at risk as well," the blonde also clarified, which only made the pit in Gilbert's stomach sink further and swell. "This isn't the sort of thing a civilian should be getting muddled up in."

"So then we need to stop her… Right? Find out who she is and tell her to take a step back?"

"Exactly. But where do we even begin…?"

"Ahh, the age old question. _Where do we begin?_ " Gilbert gave a dry chuckle and shook his head. He sighed again. "I just want to know when this will all end, to be honest…"

And then, like a hurricane, Basch came in through the door and ten minutes later, the office had been abandoned, evacuated, left behind.

Gilbert went to bed early that night, two Ambien popped, two empty bottles of beer abandoned on the living room coffee table, two missed calls from Francis left ignored on his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's officially been three months since i started publishing this story! we've come so far, and there's still so much more to come, ahhhh!! just wanted to remind you all that i love you, you're amazing, and you are my stars <3
> 
> sooooo it seems Ivan is off the hook, eh? he and Yao had a thing going on, but it begs the question: what happened to Yao after he was at the bar? Ivan says a few important little things... not massive clues, but perhaps hints towards the... 'why'... (poor Yao, sorry man, someone had to kick the bucket!). also,, i wonder what happened to his sister. and which one :'3
> 
> meanwhile, Francis does not hold back! you can imagine him in court, like damn. he knows what he's doing and he is NOT taking any prisoners. but emotions can be dangerous things, like Ivan said. anger is not a friend. 
> 
> and, well, Gilbert really is just having a shit time of it in general, isn't he? a screwed interview, a suspect down, back to square one, and sent home by his boss. things can't really get worse for him... can they...? 
> 
> :)


	22. Act II - 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio needs some friendly advice after a rough afternoon. Mikkel needs some answers from someone who might have them. A new figure just needs his investigation-obsessed wife to come home on time...

**_Sunday 5th April. 13:10pm._ **

It had been a relatively quiet morning in which Antonio spent his time in town running a few little errands here and there, popping into shops, keeping busy… Gilbert had been signed off from work for the day. When he had come home the day before, Gilbert had already been in bed, and Antonio hadn't found out what on earth had dampened the other's spirits until that morning. Apparently, an interrogation had gone horribly wrong. And Francis had called the detectives incompetent, pretty much.

Antonio had not been best pleased to hear that.

But Gilbert had not hung around and had insisted he go out that morning to do some work anyway, to at least try to think through his things some more, get some fresh air. _'There's this woman I have to find_ — _she's fucking everything up'._ Antonio had tried to protest all the while—he was concerned that Gilbert's mental health was declining, and that should have been the priority. Gilbert had told him that he didn't know what was best for him right then—that only Gilbert knew what Gilbert needed—before he had left. 

It was not often that Antonio felt like his boyfriend was spiralling. But when he did, he couldn't help but worry, because that was when things became more dangerous—and not just for Gilbert.

Still, Antonio had decided to do a little cleaning in the hopes that having a fresher, tidier environment would do the both of them some good. Not that the apartment was that messy, exactly. But it didn't stop him from scrubbing the kitchen sides, or wiping down the windows, including the doors that led out onto their little balcony, or from lighting his favourite candle (the Pink Sands were still going strong; God bless Gilbert for buying the biggest jar) to cleanse the air. By the time that was done, half an hour had passed (okay, so maybe a few minutes had been wasted on trying to find some decent music to play in the background) and he felt good. The last thing he wanted to do was to just neaten up some things, put some other things away, and just generally sort out the rest of the things that made the living area seem more cluttered than it was.

Cushions were fluffed; blankets were tugged off of sofas and shaken off and refolded and placed back; the rug was adjusted so it was centralised once more; DVDs went back up onto the shelves; some books were carefully set back on the shelves (one of them had lost a black bookmark that had fallen to the floor when Antonio picked it up. He didn't recognise the book, which meant it was one of Gilbert's, so he placed it carefully in with the rest of his boyfriend's small collection). All in all, the room was starting to feel more _right_ , more _perfect_.

And then Antonio noticed on the side cabinet, where the books had been left out on the side, a file. A grey case file. And he was fairly certain that it had not been there this morning when Gilbert had left, or when he had left home about an hour later to go shopping. Curious, he opened the file and was met with a stack of reports—autopsies, he quickly found—as well as pictures from the crime scenes, most of which he had seen before when helping Gilbert with those demon sigils. Part of him had been surprised that evening that Gilbert hadn't worked out what they were sooner… 

The autopsies themselves were neatly written and elaborate. From what Antonio gathered, this killer was changing their MO, or was at least experimenting. _Morphine, midazolam, naloxone…_ Amazing, how all of that could be picked up post-mortem with the right equipment. Antonio had always had a respect for those who worked in the mortuaries and the pathology labs. What a frightful but fascinating job. He had considered going into forensic pathology himself, once, but had ultimately decided to help the living rather than the deceased. It had felt more necessary.

As he was rifling through the photographs again, the front door suddenly opened and slammed shut. It startled him so much that he dropped the file, scattering the photographs all over the floor. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ He cursed himself straight to Hell and beyond in his head as he tried to gather them all up, but there was no way he would have been quick enough. Gilbert came into the apartment and caught him red-handed.

"What are you doing…?"

Antonio brushed off the incident and said: "I knocked the file off the cabinet side while cleaning," not looking up to meet Gilbert's gaze as he picked up the last few stragglers. At least the autopsies had been paperclipped securely in place, still tucked away neatly in the file. "I don't even know why it's there," he then added. "It wasn't there this morning before I left…"

_But maybe Gil has the answer?_

"Just— Here, give me that," Gilbert responded, being a little short with him, reaching for the file that Antonio gingerly set in his grasp. Gilbert practically snatched it. _Someon_ _e's clearly had a bad day so far…_ "I'm guessing Arthur left it here for me this morning. He said he might pop by."

"Arthur?" Antonio repeated as he stood back up. "But how did he get in if no one was here…?"

The question made Gilbert merely huff in frustration. _What's the problem? Aren’t I allowed to ask?_ "I gave him the other spare key," the detective told him straight. 

Antonio didn't like that. "Why?" he questioned. "When? And why didn't you tell me?"

"Does it fucking _matter_?"

Antonio didn't like the way Gilbert had raised his voice, either, but this time he said nothing on it. A frail and distant part of him was whisked back away to his youth, to how he was brought up after moving to the States. He had learned back then not to interrupt someone when they apparently held all the cards.

"I gave him a key," Gilbert pressed on, not that his voice had gotten much softer, "because I figured that _Henrique_ has one, so why not give the other one to someone I trust as well?"

Well, that caught Antonio off-guard like a hard slap around the face. "Oh,” he said, “so you don't trust Henrique? Is that it? You have an issue with him having a key?"

"For fuck— Why are we talking about him, now?"

"You're the one who brought him up, I'm just curious as to why you _apparently_ don't trust him."

There was a brief pause. Antonio was sure he heard his own heart beating, thumping in his chest (ringing in his ears). Ludwig already had a spare key, he wanted to say, wasn’t that enough? They had two people to rely on in an emergency, should something happen, or if they went away. They did not need a third key-keeper. But Gilbert evidently did not see it that way.

"That's not what I said and you know it,” the other muttered off-handedly.

"You certainly implied it. He's my _brother_ , he’s my family!”

"And Arthur's my _partner!_ So what?"

That stung. That stung a lot. If Gilbert regretted those words, or even understood what they meant to Antonio, it certainly didn't show. 

But Antonio did not want to argue with Gilbert. They never fought—not properly, not intensely—and he didn't want them to start now. Even if he could feel his blood boiling. Even if he could feel that pressure building inside of him. Antonio did not want to give into that anger and frustration he was now feeling, so he did the only reasonable thing he could think to do: he left. He told Gilbert he was going out for some fresh air, that he would pop back just before his four o'clock shift to grab his stuff, and that he would see Gilbert tomorrow. 

Hopefully by then, the other would have come to his senses and calmed the fuck down.

* * *

**_18:12pm._ **

They were in between call-outs and having a short break after an incident that involved someone's leg being impaled (which, yes, had also led to the fire crew getting involved to sever the metal pipe), and they all felt like they needed it—a cold drink, a breather, a good chat.

During their respite, Alfred took a phone call (which was unusual in of itself) and stepped outside of the ambulance, leaving Antonio and Abel to their own devices. There wasn't much for the pair to discuss. Abel attempted to make small talk and asked how Antonio's day had been so far, but Antonio had struggled with a coherent reply.

"I went out this morning just to do some shopping," he had said, before the issue had arisen with the afternoon; "and then… I did some cleaning, I guess, and just kinda went out for a bit, got some fresh air, that sort of thing…"

He omitted the fight because he didn’t need Henrique catching word of the dispute, and he hadn’t exactly thought up what to say about what he had done that afternoon for his cover-story. It had been a bit of a blur; Antonio vaguely recalled leaving the apartment to try and not let his anger get the better of him, and had decided the energy was better put to walking. Where he went, he couldn’t say for sure—he just walked and walked and walked until he felt a bit better, and until it seemed like a reasonable time to nip back to the flat (if Gilbert was there, he hadn’t seen him; he was probably hiding away in his study) and then go to work.

It may not have been the wisest thing, in hindsight, to go work with those bad emotions still hovering over him. He just wanted to reconcile, but at the same time, he wanted a serious apology from Gilbert. _It still stings._ His words still hurt. _'_ _Arthur is my partner'_. But what about Antonio? Who was he if not Gilbert's _actual_ partner…?

Alfred opened the door, which made Antonio jump, and he hopped back into his seat.

_Ah, a topic change._

"Go on then, Al," Antonio said as the blonde got comfortable, "tell us who it was."

"Uhh… Why…?"

"Because you never take a call on shift, so it must have been someone important," he remarked with a smile. He couldn't ignore how Alfred went slightly red at the observation, but he spared him the embarrassment of pointing it out. "You can tell me, you know…"

Alfred cleared his throat. "It was just a friend, Toni."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Wouldn't happen to be Italian, would he?"

Alfred just stared at him. Then he narrows his eyes warily. "Like I said, it was just a friend…"

"Okay, okay, if you insist," Antonio replied, backing off. For all of… three seconds. "But you know you can talk to us about relationships, right? We _are_ the Gay-Team."

"Not strictly," Abel mumbled from Antonio's right side, which, well, it was _true_ , because they weren't necessarily _strictly_ gay, but he didn't find that very constructive so he chose to ignore it.

At which point, Abel decided to bail and made an excuse to leave the ambulance and avoid whatever conversation was coming. He would go get some snacks for everyone. 

Antonio returned his focus to Alfred once they were alone and said: "If you do ever need advice, you know you can come to me, yeah? For anything. Not just flirting advice or dating advice or cooking advice or—"

"I get the picture! It really isn't… _like_ that," Alfred stated, giving a quiet sigh. It was not the right time to push the topic, evidently. A nerve had been touched. _Am I just being that annoying today? Is that what it is? Am I the problem?_ "But thank you. I'll… I'll bear it in mind."

"That's... Well, that's all I can ask for."

Trying not to let those questions show— _am I what's wrong? Am I causing people pain just by being here?_ —Antonio settled back in his seat. He wondered for a minute if maybe it was _himself_ who needed the relationship advice, but, who was he kidding? It was just a small spat, caused merely because Gilbert was far too stressed. Antonio knew he would calm down soon enough. They'd get a new lead, they'd find a new trail, and Gilbert would be back to… being Gilbert. _His_ Gilbert.

He loved his Gilbert. He loved him more than anything else in the world, and he would sooner say goodbye to the ambulances than lose that man. He would do whatever it took. 

"Hey, Toni…?"

"Hmm…?"

" _¿Estás bien?_ "

The Spaniard cracked a small smile. " _C_ _reo que sí._ But, can I ask an opinion of you? An honest one?"

"Of course you can. What's up? Is something wrong?"

"I don’t really know… But before I go into that, are you free this Thursday evening?"

* * *

**_19:24pm._ **

Anna opened the front door and invited Mikkel inside. He had called shortly before to ask if he could come over and speak to her, and Anna was too good a soul to turn him down and turn him away. He was going through a lot with Lukas. She wanted to be there for both of them.

It was just a good job that dinner was done, and that the boys were upstairs with Linnea, having their bath before bedtime.

"I just want to know if you know about any kind of developments, any… any clues they might have," Mikkel said to her as they sat down in the living room. He had already declined the offer of a drink, so she had a feeling he did not plan on staying for too long. "Just _anything_ , Annikki. Lukas is—… he's falling apart…"

"I know, I can understand that," she replied softly. "Losing family like that will never be easy, and I am so very sorry for his loss… But you know I can't share too much information about the case. There are rules…"

" _Please_ , Annie, there has to be something you can tell me that I can tell Lukas that will help him calm down. H-He's terrified that he'll never know what really happened—or that Emil will be forgotten."

At that, Anna felt her more maternal side kick in, scooting closer to Mikkel on the sofa and setting a hand on his back. "I can promise you, he will never be forgotten. _Never_. And certainly not by us," she said to him as she started to rub circles. "And I can also promise you that the team is working hard to find who did this. The case is hard, it's a mess—but I trust Gilbert. Don't you?"

"...yeah, I do."

"Then we just have to keep believing in him and supporting him, and Arthur as well. I can see how badly the investigation is affecting them, too. Just yesterday, they—"

 _Oops. Too much information_ , she chided herself, but she already knew that Mikkel would be holding onto those words and waiting for some sort of elaboration. Anna always did have the bad habit of not always knowing when to stop talking—most of the time it wasn’t an issue. But, in this case, it was less than ideal.

"What happened yesterday?" Mikkel asked her, just as she predicted. _Fiddlesticks._

“They brought in a suspect,” she said quickly, knowing that he would never let the topic go until she spilled the beans, “but I don’t know who. I just know that there was someone in interrogation.”

She decided not to share the fact that Gilbert and Arthur had subsequently been sent home for the rest of the weekend by Basch, who had not appreciated the mockery the pair had made with a lawyer present—and a defense lawyer at that. Annikki had been shocked when he heard the news, but she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the boys. They were struggling, and she wished she could be of more use to them, really…

Of course she had done her part—she had done the reports, she had done the autopsies, she had done all the tests to determine when the victims had died and given the detectives their more timeframes, she had—… She had been the one to look after Emil’s body. To respect him as much as she could as she had done the tests, and then, when she found that naloxone in his system… It was a wonder she had kept it together when she had realised the implications. But someone had tortured him—someone had tried to kill him and undone it, had a little fun with him before killing him with their own hands. 

The day Gilbert and Arthur solved the case and brought their killer in, she would be sure to request a five-minute chat with them. _Just_ to give them a good, hard slap (because that would get her a warning, but certainly not a termination of her work contract).

“I don’t know any more beyond that,” she made sure to clarify, before Mikkel went on to bombard her with more questions and demands. “All I can say is that they are working, and working hard. They’re doing their best, and they will eventually find the right answer. I know it isn’t… much for you to go on, but Lukas could at least do with that reassurance, right?”

Mikkel slowly nodded. “Yeah, he could…”

“So then take it from someone who has been working with the detectives,” Annikki said; “they will solve this case, if it’s the last thing they do.”

* * *

**_20:24pm._ **

Oskar ran his hand down Alexis’ back, and then lifted his hand to gently scratch behind the cat’s ears. It elicited a soft purr and Oskar felt himself relax along with the feline, but only briefly. Only slightly. Renata hadn’t contacted him since that morning, when he had politely asked her what time she would be coming home so he could cook dinner and have it ready at a decent time.

She had said eight o’clock.

Eight o’clock had come and gone.

He didn’t like it when she came home late. Oskar was aware that Renata thought it was just because he was being difficult, because he just wanted her to be at home rather than running around the city as night started to envelope it. It wasn’t entirely inaccurate. He _did_ want her home, and ideally before nightfall, but that was more so because of what she did for a living (journalism could have its risks at times on its own, let alone when you threw the word ‘investigative’ in front of it), and that she had developed the rather infuriating tendency of not telling him what she was doing until she came barrelling back through the front door.

So far, she was twenty-five minutes late, which was hardly a record. Really, by her standard, this was just a mild inconvenience. An average delay. But it didn’t make it any easier, it didn’t make the waiting any less painful or panic-inducing.

Once, Renata had come home two hours late. No apology, just brushed off, and she seemed to not think much of the fact that Oskar had had a full on attack, that he had already sorted his plans for how to report her missing (her description, the clothes she wore, her last known movements…). She was more carefree than him like that. Carefree and stubborn as hell. Some days, Oskar was amazed they were still married; but then he would see her joy, he would see her pour her heart out as she talked about a case, about her theories, her developments, and the way her eyes lit up would make him melt like it was the first time they had met.

She had a passion. And as much as he hated what she did and the trouble it caused her, even if she didn’t want to acknowledge it, he would never stop her. Not because he wouldn’t be able to (well, he wouldn’t, they’d sooner divorce) but because he never wanted her to lose that passion for her work. She had even once contemplated going into private investigation rather than journalism. _Wouldn’t that be incredible?_ she had said. _I could do so much more_.

Part of Oskar hoped she would go for it, but she hadn’t brought it up again since that night. Perhaps he would suggest it to her, depending on how well her current case was going. It seemed to be going alright so far, from what little he’d been told. Though, perhaps her success could be seen in how much she had been running around, how she stayed up late taking notes, how she neglected their time together in favour of working…

Was that a selfish thought…?

A sigh escaped his lips. “I suppose we should carry on and eat something, huh, Alexis?” he said to the cat in his lap. Alexis only continued to purr. “Five more minutes?” Alexis didn’t move. “Alright, we’ll wait five more minutes, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentine's day to Gilbert and Antonio :') looks like they're both having fun!
> 
> (i hate february 14th, sorry not sorry haha, this chapter was well timed c':)
> 
> meanwhile, hello to Oskar, ever the doting and worried husband. hopefully Renata gets back soon! poor Lukas is still grieving, but at least he has a vigilant Mikkel looking out for him! and fingers crossed too that Gilbert will get back on track after his impromptu day off? it's a tough case..
> 
> we are finally halfway through the entire work and things are now really going to start kicking off! see you in the next update! i wonder what will happen ;)


	23. Act II - 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert receives a phonecall that he had anticipated, but dreaded, and he and Arthur can only hope that a crate's worth of paperwork can provide them with some answers.

**_Monday 6th April. 06:02am._ **

Gilbert could have sworn he’d only closed his eyes for a brief moment, a thought dying in his mind, and yet somehow his phone had lit up telling him that it was already six. That, and more pressingly, his phone was alive with a buzz. _Basch._ He already had a feeling what this would be about, but it didn’t help settle his stomach.

Being careful, Gilbert grabbed his phone and sat up in bed. Antonio would only have been there for about an hour or so by his estimations, and he didn’t want to bother him. Not when he still hadn’t actually spoken to him since the previous afternoon…

He answered the call, trying not to sound too tired. “Hey, Chief,” he said. As was typical, a yawn erupted from him, and he held the phone away from his face so he didn’t give Basch a literal earful. Gilbert barely caught what he had been saying.

“...dy at the Eastern Shipyards. Looks like your killer. Anna is already en route, and Kirkland will be close behind. Better get a move on, Beilschmidt,” Basch told him. “This is beyond out of hand.”

_Don’t I know it…_

“Roger that, boss. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Good. No dawdling.”

The call ended like that but Gilbert still felt like utter crap after it. How couldn’t he? That was a fourth body. He wasn’t sure whether the fact that he hadn’t broken down about it was because he was in shock or too numb by now to the news. Either way, he still managed to yank himself from bed in a timely fashion and wriggle on some clothes. He figured they would go straight to work following this given that it was already morning; his alarm would have gone off in half an hour anyway.

As he pulled on a warm jacket, he glanced to the bed towards the other side of the room. Antonio hadn’t budged. In fact, he was lying quite solitarily, to one side, a gap having been left between him and where Gilbert had been lying. He may have been asleep, but he almost seemed tense, huddled closely to himself. _Should have been huddled up with me_. But that was Gilbert’s fault, apparently. They hadn’t spoken, they hadn’t ‘kissed and made up’ after their little argument. 

But it wasn’t just Gilbert who needed to apologise, right…? Right. Antonio had gotten all defensive about his brother, when, it had to be said, Henrique was the one with the fucking _problem_ — No, no, he couldn't let himself get all worked up like this, not when he had only just woken up and there was still a job to be done. When he got the chance, he would sit down with Antonio and they would sort this out. He didn't know how, but… he wanted to try. 

For now, however, he had another body to deal with, and that was his priority.

The drive over to the shipyards took about fifteen minutes, taking him all the way across the eastern side of the city and to the waterfront. It was a quiet area, and it used to be quite pleasant to have an evening jaunt along the small stone beach and the port ( _I wonder if Antonio would want to go again one day…_ ), but now it was the new crime scene. An alley, another alley, the riverbank, the shipyards. Surely they had to scrap locations from the MO. There was no consistency other than them being on the East Side. Was that really something they could go on? Could it help them narrow down a search?

The scene was illuminated in part by the rising sun. 

A man who had turned up for work that morning came across the body near the shipping containers and had called it in immediately. He had even made sure the area was left alone, which definitely did the forensic team a favour. Gilbert had thanked him, directed him elsewhere so he could be questioned by an officer, and subsequently took control of the scene. Annikki had arrived around the same time he had, having had further to come, and he asked her to get right on it, offering to come with her.

The body was lying prone, on its front, and judging from the clothing, it was a woman this time (she wore a crimson skirt, a light blouse; she also had a jacket with her but it seemed that it had been left crumpled on the floor next to her). Yet another thing that had changed in a line of consistencies. 

Unlike at the last crime scene, this time, Gilbert got to witness Annikki’s initial reaction to seeing the body (in truth, he never really got to see how the forensic team reacted, or how a death could stick to them, too…). It was not as severe as the full panic attack it seemed she had suffered when she had discovered Emil, but she still stopped stiff as she carefully turned the body over with her gloved hands. She held her breath. And then she exhaled with a quiet sadness.

However Annikki recognised her, Gilbert wasn’t sure if it was as disturbing as the fact that he, too, recognised that face. _From the university, that woman who spoke to the lecturer, and the one who chased after Ivan. Our mystery private investigator_. This was not how he had intended to find her. He wished that he had found her alive and sooner, to talk her out of investigating—the whole point of tracking her down was to literally prevent this from happening! To encourage her out of harm’s way, before the killer caught wind of her nosiness, _God—!_

Francis had been right. He was useless. He was incompetent. He wasn’t doing his job.

“Go on,” Annikki spoke up. Gilbert came to and turned to her, only just noticing now that she had been looking at him. “How do you know her?”

Gilbert swallowed a convulsing lump in his throat. “She was investigating on her own. I bumped into her at the university, and she’s also been speaking to some of our other witnesses and suspects,” he told her. “I didn’t know her beyond that. She was a person of interest that we’ve been hoping to speak to… What— What about you?” he asked in turn. 

“She was an acquaintance. Just someone I met at a criminology convention maybe two years ago,” Annikki mused, her gaze turned back to the woman. “We kept in touch here and there, but it never went beyond the occasional talk, the odd coffee…”

“I… I see. My condolences.”

“Not for me, not this time. She had a husband,” Annikki stated. “He’s called Oskar Doubek.”

“And the victim?”

“Renata.”

“Alright, we’ll get a hold of Liaison and see if we can pay him a visit today—see if he’s up for it,” Gilbert said, mostly to himself. Making mental notes and all that. “Is there anything you can tell me for the minute about the scene itself? The body?”

Annikki asked for a moment to do a rough assessment, which Gilbert naturally granted her. As she worked and moved clothing out of the way, checking over limbs, neck, face and head for any signs of trauma, or anything that may have lined up with previous killings, she gave a small list: “Three broken fingers on the left hand; light bruising around the wrists; same signs of hypoxia as before. Autopsy may reveal a morphine overdose, if I had to put money on it.”

“Has she been…?”

He didn’t want to say it aloud, purely because he didn’t want to even contemplate it being true, but…

“I don’t think so, but I would need to do a proper check in the lab. There’s a chance the killer’s DNA is somewhere on her clothing, if nowhere else,” she told him, seeming just as disturbed by the notion. “Not that I have had much luck with anyone of the other bodies; our killer’s smart enough to wear gloves while they work.”

“That just makes them _annoying_ ,” Gilbert muttered to himself. Why did murderers have to get smart and start wearing gloves and bleaching scenes and stealing their victim’s phones and IDs? Which reminded him— He quickly looked around at the team of officers and forensics: “Has anyone found a mobile phone in the area, or perhaps a bag? A purse?”

There was a chorus of ‘no’s and ‘no, sir’s. _Fucking… brilliant._

The detective quietly sighed all the while, because as frustrating as it was, it still wasn’t the most alarming thing. “It seems our killer is becoming a bit more physical, more brutal,” he said quietly, just between himself and Annikki. “I know Adnan was in a state, but those were superficial, post-mortem,” he observed, the other humming along in agreement. “Bruised wrists and broken fingers sound a bit more like a antemortem thing, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say she’s been dead for maybe five hours or so,” Annikki nodded, “which could very well mean there was time to… _hurt_ her before killing her. Until we know when she was last seen, however, it’s kind of hard to say for sure.”

“Then that’s something Kirkie and I will get onto. Thanks, Annie. You can do what you need to do,” he said to her, getting up from where he had been crouching and walking towards the cordon tape. 

As soon as Arthur turned up, they were going to get the hell out of there, and they were going to find out as much as they could about one Mrs. Renata Doubek.

* * *

**_08:33am._ **

Kiku was back in Yao’s office, going through his files and cabinets. A temporary replacement would be joining them in a couple days to help with the workload, and he wanted to make sure everything was in order in the room that they would be using.

It was weird being back in there. It was weird walking in and not having Yao there, complaining about work, complaining about society, complaining about any old random thing. Once upon a time, Kiku had hated how much he complained and wished he would learn to deal with his issues without dragging the rest of the world into it. Now he would take it back—have _Yao_ be back, even if it meant complaints were all he ever heard.

A sigh escaped the doctor as he moved from the filing cabinet (which seemed to be more or less in order) and onto the drawers of medication. He unlocked the set using a key and took out a list, so he could make sure that the basics were at least all stocked up and ready should the new doctor require them. From paracetamol to antihistamine, to the drugs and medications that they only gave out to certain patients, from things like fluoxetine to lisinopril to corticosteroids, for a whole array of problems and symptoms and treatments. 

From what he could see, nothing was missing and nothing really needed stocking up. Maybe a few more boxes of ibuprofen wouldn’t go amiss, and also some antagonist drugs for any overdose cases, because those seemed to be running on the low side (and it was always better to be safe than sorry in this field of work).

That meant there was little else for him for check over. 

It was weird being in Yao’s office. Had he already…? He had already told himself that, he was sure. But it was true, so, so what if he said it again?

He sat down in Yao’s chair at Yao’s desk and set his hands down on Yao’s keyboard. Though, he did not go to type anything. The computer was off, anyway. Instead, his hands drifted down to Yao’s desk drawers instead, which he pulled open with relative ease. There wasn’t much he kept inside them besides the odd piece of stationery, a random note he would leave himself and subsequently forget about. It had perhaps been wishful thinking on Kiku’s part that he might find something there, hiding away, tucked in a back corner.

But there was nothing.

He smiled to himself, and closed the drawers with as much care as he had opened them with, before he got out of the seat and tucked it back into place, as though it had not moved since that last night he had seen Yao. 

The door to the office opened and the receptionist stuck her head in, though, it didn’t really startle Kiku. He invited her to go ahead with a nod.

“Someone has come by to see you and would like a quick word with you, before we open up the front doors. A Mr. Braginsky, I believe he said his name was.”

“Alright, I’ll be there in a minute. Thank you.”

The young woman smiled and slunk back out of the room, letting the door close and leaving the doctor to his thoughts once more.

* * *

**_10:22am._ **

Tolys was due at work soon, but it could wait, he could be a few minutes late if that's what it took.

He was still feeling on edge after Saturday. He had returned to an empty bar, with no sign of Ivan anywhere, and he’d been in a flap all morning and afternoon until Francis had showed up and told Tolys that Ivan was with the police. He had helped the lawyer collect what he needed, and had then stayed behind in the back room, hoping that Ivan would come back soon and that everything was fine and that nothing bad would happen to the man.

That afternoon, after Francis had left, Tolys had done what he believed to be the only sensible thing in the name of an innocent friend: to collect anything that he thought the police would try to use against Ivan in any way, to remove it from the premises, and then to hide them. 

All that search had really meant he needed to search for was a collection of hand-written letters, which now lay in his lap as he sat on the floor of his living room. They were the only thing he knew of and could find that drew a clean line between Ivan and Yao, and Tolys did not want those detectives getting their hands on them—so he had taken them.

Of course, when Ivan had returned seemingly unperturbed by the day’s events (though, he had always been good at hiding how he felt—or _trying_ to hide how he felt, at least. Not much got past Tolys, unfortunately), the bartender (and friend) had told Ivan about the letters and that he had taken them. Ivan had thanked him for his vigilance. And, to the brunette’s surprise, he had asked him to hold onto them and destroy them when he got the chance.

Tolys had always been so good at doing what he was told…

He had lit a fire in the fireplace—just a small one, that was enough to properly get rid of the evidence in his possession. And one by one, in went the letters. Tolys daren’t even read them—they were far too personal. He knew that they would contain Ivan’s heart and his soul, and that it was not his place to bury his nose in such private correspondence. Ivan, for what it was worth, had cared about Yao very much. Very deeply. It didn’t matter whether he admitted it to anyone, what mattered was that it was written there on paper, plain as day.

Letters had seemed so antiquated to Tolys when the first had shown up. He thought it an unusual way to communicate in such a modern age. Nevertheless, Ivan had loved—adored—that first letter, and had hastened to write a reply. Lovesick, was what Tolys had thought of it, but perhaps in a good way. Yao gave Ivan something he had never found in anyone else. So if they wanted to write letters to each other and quietly flirt over a bar counter and play cards together in the back room, then Tolys had made sure to never interfere in that.

He simply cared too much to do that to Ivan.

So he destroyed the letters. He let them slowly burn up into ash, one by one, and Ivan’s heart burned up with them. Tolys stared into the flames while he worked. Perhaps he liked the warmth. Perhaps he wanted to be sure it all was properly destroyed. Perhaps, a part of him was dying in those flames as well, and he simply wanted to mourn it.

* * *

**_11:54am._ **

The detectives had been given the green light by the liaison officer, which meant that they could go and speak to Mr. Doubek. _Finally_. 

Gilbert and Arthur had spent the morning filing through any and all information they had been able to pull up on Mrs. Doubek—from a blog all about unsolved crimes, to her very-up-to-date Linked In profile, which listed her as an investigative journalist. It had explained why on earth she had taken it upon herself to start harassing suspects and witnesses ( _harsh, Gil, that’s harsh_ ). However, what had lacked were any hints as to what she had currently been investigating, how far she had gotten, and so on. 

Though, as Arthur had pointed out, it did make sense that she would wait to have come to a solution, or at least a solid theory, before publishing anything online.

That meant that if they could find any answers that could point to what she was investigating, and in turn, what put her in the path of their killer, it wasn't on the web. There had to be an answer somewhere. She had to have made notes somewhere. There had to be some massive clue _somewhere_ , if her investigation got her killed. 

It was either that, or this was mere coincidence, but Gilbert really hated coincidences.

The Doubeks owned an apartment together on the East Side—one that overlooked the river and the West Side just beyond—that was part of a small block. It seemed pleasant enough (Gilbert, at least, believed it was better than what he and Antonio had started out in) and upon entering the building, the detectives were directed right to No. 12, where Oskar was apparently waiting for them with Liaison. They had been warned in advance that the man was fragile and still trying to process what had happened, but he did want to help—for now, they should just be careful about what they said and how they said it.

 _Basically_ , he told himself as they went up to the second floor, _just don’t remind him that his wife was murdered and possibly (probably?) brutalised in the early hours of the morning_.

Arthur was the first through the front door, and Gilbert followed close behind.

They walked along the hallway and towards the door in front of them, which opened out into a living room space, with a conjoined dining room just off to the right. It was a warm space thanks to the abundance of wooden furniture and neutral colours. Mr. Doubek sat on the sofa, legs tucked up close to him and a box of tissues (some of which had been used, left discarded on the floor, the table, in his lap) in his hand. The liaison officer, who welcomed the detectives into the room, was also there until she excused herself so that the three of them could talk in peace. She would hang around outside the apartment for the time being.

Once they were alone, Oskar abruptly invited the officers to sit down, seemingly alarmed at himself for having taken so long to offer. 

He was in quite a state. Red-eyed, puffy-cheeked. It was a completely different picture to Honda and Katsaros—much more akin to how Bondevik had been during his interview. People were funny things… As were emotions, he supposed.

“Mr. Doubek,” Gilbert started, nodding in greeting at the man he now sat opposite. “Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

The man gave a half-hearted shrug. “It’s not like I have anything better to do,” he replied quietly. It was clear that he had attempted to speak normally, as if this whole situation was not still tearing him up from the inside, but something like that was never easy to hide. “It— It makes more sense to help you than to… do _nothing_ …”

“We understand.” A pause. “Thank you.” 

Mr. Doubek did not reply, and the detectives merely took that as a sign to get down to business. _There has to be some sort of clue here_ — _a hint, or something that can point us in the right direction_. So, rather than jumping into the usual, ‘ _do you know anyone who would want to harm your wife?_ ’, Gilbert took a slightly more sensible approach to the delicate topic.

“It has come to our attention that Mrs. Doubek was investigating a series of murders in the city,” he said, which earned a slow nod from the other man. “We were hoping that she had some notes or information from her investigations that we could use—it seems highly likely that something she found out could have resulted in her—” _Ah, fuck, how do I say ‘murder’ without saying ‘murder’?_ “—falling into the sights of our killer.” _Fuck me, I guess that’ll have to do._ “Would they be here, by any chance?”

The man nodded again. “I already got out a box for you,” he told the detectives, who were both equally stunned by the gesture, as Oskar pointed feebly to a plastic tub set down against the cabinet along the far wall.

Gilbert shared a look with Arthur, before standing up and walking over to the box himself, taking off the lid. He took to gently rummaging in the contents for anything that stuck out or seemed particularly important (though he had a feeling, judging by the sheer lack of any organisation of paperwork and printed website and scraps of paper, that that was no mean feat). He moved a black notepad aside to see if there were any other similar items where notes were no doubt properly organised. She had to have written things down somewhere specific so her finidngs were at least coherent…

All the while, Arthur said: “Is there anything you can tell us about your wife from yesterday? Where she was going, if her demeanour seemed any different to normal…?”

“She didn’t really tell me those sorts of things,” came Mr. Doubek’s reply. Gilbert lifted out a pile of paper and dumped it aside, faced with only more and more ( _fucking_ ) sheets. “Renata was… Well, she was determined. Passionate. It was what drove her, her need to search, to ask, to be curious… But she was a hurricane, too,” he remarked. “She came and went as she pleased and didn’t often care about the mess she left behind…”

“So would you say she was perhaps a little reckless in that sense?”

“Maybe a bit. It’s not—” He stopped and huffed. “It’s not that I didn’t trust her, or that I am overprotective… I just knew that what she was doing was not the safest job in the world, and that she did not often like telling me where she was or what she was doing—purely because she got too caught up in the moment. She simply… didn’t think to.”

Arthur gave a soft hum and glanced to Gilbert, who had already been staring at him for the past few seconds, eyes boring into his temple. _Fucking finally._ “Everything alright?” the blonde questioned.

“I think we should take this in as evidence. It needs a serious sort through,” Gilbert explained to him, “and that is best done at the station.”

“That’s fine, we can see to that.”

“Mr. Doubek,” Gilbert pressed on, turning his attention to the man on the couch who had just pulled himself a fresh tissue to wipe his eyes with; “did your wife always keep her phone with her while working?”

“Always,” he confirmed. “It didn’t matter if she was working or not—she always kept it close.”

“And do you know if it was a trackable phone? Was she on a contract? Or did she have an app?”

The man’s face scrunched up slightly as he thought, the tissue balled up into his fist. “I, uh… I think she did, you know… I can find you the details on the phone if you want, it should be in the drawer…”

“That would be very helpful, thank you.”

While Oskar got up and moved, Gilbert replaced all the paper into the plastic crate and clipped the lid back onto it. In the meantime, Arthur got up and crouched down by him, meeting him at eye level. 

“Do you think the killer would still have the phone?” he asked.

“It’s a possibility.”

“But would they really be stupid enough, when they have previously left no DNA, no fingerprints…?”

“Who’s to say?” Gilbert replied with a shrug. “But if the killer doesn’t have it, then there’s a chance it could at least be in the place she was killed, which could lead us to more clues. _Actual_ DNA evidence. Something to give us an advantage.”

Arthur gave a steady nod, a deep breath. “God, I hope you’re right, Gil,” he said. “I really hope you are…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the curtain has fallen on Renata's performance. a shame, but she wandered into the path of a killer who doesn't take kindly to being investigated, quite clearly. i feel bad for Oskar but at the same time...
> 
> PLOT.
> 
> no real hints this time as to who our killer could be, i'll level with you, but pls leave me some comments/feedback! stuff like that keeps me going with this sort of story. i never quite know if i'm doing it right or if it will the clues i dot around will make sense/be obvious once this is over and we all look back :') crime fiction is h a r d guys, ahhhhh
> 
> n o w
> 
> THANK YOU, YOU WONDERFUL PEOPLE! we hit 1000 hits recently (23/02/21!) and i never imagined this work would get that much attention, so i really really really want to thank you, for kudos, for comments, or for just clicking on this out of curiosity. it means the world that people are reading this! so here, have a big fat hug thru your screen <3
> 
> n o w ( a g a i n )
> 
> time for a little rant ~venting~ and a warning regarding upcoming chapters in the next couple of weeks! (to skip to the main point, just go the asterisk *)
> 
> story time: i am currently in London, cloistered in a hotel room, waiting to get a flight back to Spain tomorrow morning. i have waited two whole months and have dealt with six flights being cancelled on me, and this was a last minute decision i had to make. i hate London so much and i didn't want to really travel like this during covid but i had no choice sooooo..
> 
> tbh i'm only going to Spain to grab my belongings from my apartment - unfortunately, i had to drop out of my placement because i was unable to return in the new year and they were basically like, 'WeLL eVeRyoNe ElSe MaDe iT bAcK' and yEAH i bet they fuckin' did because they had the right documentation which i WOULD HAVE HAD if i hadn't LOST MY PASSPORT back in December, preventing me from going to the appointment to GET SAID DOCUMENT so 'sorry xxx' c': so i had to resign
> 
> so anywhos, i need to get my stuff. i only wanna be there for two weeks tops, just to pack up, visit a city or two to make the most of being able to travel, and then haul my ass back to England just in time for my 21st (yayyy). girl's gotta start looking for a placement in Italy instead which is not what i was planning to do until May but hey, plans change! (read: my stress levels are about to go through the rOOF--)
> 
> however, because my apartment in Spain was unoccupied for over two months and i couldn't say when i'd be back, i told my landlords to cancel my WiFi because that was getting expensive, so now i have no internet in my apartment and idk if i'll be able to sort out a temporary solution while i'm there. i'm gonna try but.. yea.. rural Spain :') 
> 
> so like, basically, i'm very very sorry but don't hold your breath for updates in the next two/three weeks, i just can't guarantee it. i will do my best but asdfuhmgoei i mean at least i'll have a lot of free time to do physical writing, since i'm not working, but using my mobile data is gonna hurt and i prefer working on my laptop SO given that everything is on Google Docs (and i meant tens of stories/works i am currently working on) that's just... sorry :'
> 
> * tl;dr: there may be no updates to Alter Ego for the next couple of weeks because i have no WiFi in Spain :)
> 
> I HOPE YOU ARE HAVING A GOOD DAY! and i hope you enjoyed this update too! sorry for the long message, i will now leave you in peace. ciao chao~


	24. Act II - 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio bumps into someone he once knew, Fiorella meets someone she doesn't know at all, and Alfred pays his favourite 'tiramisù master' a visit with a friend in tow - and gets served a slice of embarrassment instead.

**_Tuesday 7th April. 13:02pm_ **

Antonio hit send on the quick text he had been typing as he had been walking along the streets of the city centre. With that sent and out of the way, he was all set to continue running around town for a bit longer before he was due to meet Alfred.

He passed a few places as he walked—some shops he recognised as he’d visited them already, such as a jeweller’s (he thought their stock a bit plain), a quirky bookshop (a bit more interesting) and a cute little place that sold the most amazing candles and incense; others he was less familiar with. Though there was a pastry shop he noticed that looked rather curious and unfamiliar. He would have to check it out, maybe on the way back… He could grab something for Gilbert, then, and they could—

Ah, well… There was still a bit of an issue there. They still hadn’t properly reconciled—not the way Antonio had felt was right. Maybe he would skip on the cakes… 

The evening before, Gilbert had insisted they sit down and talk it out, which they had done to an extent—both had admitted there had been an overreaction. But Gilbert had not admitted that the overreaction had started on his end, and Antonio, who still felt disgruntled by the way the other had spoken to him, had left it there. He hadn’t told him ‘ _you spoke to me like a piece of shit and I want an apology_ ’ and instead, he had just put the kettle on, and they had pretended none of it had happened.

But he was still upset. He was still hurt. It was like Gilbert had his blinkers on and couldn’t see what was happening around him, or who it was affecting. Antonio had been texting Erzsébet over the past couple of days (she was apparently concerned, and acknowledged that talking to Gilbert about it would be a pained effort) but her advice to talk to him or, more specifically, corner him one evening when he got home and _make_ him listen, just wasn’t appealing. 

Antonio did not want to force him to understand. He felt he _should_ understand, anyway, and that by now Gilbert should have known him better than to assume a smile meant everything was fine. 

Maybe he just needed to be patient. Maybe he would find the right moment, the _perfect time_ to speak to him about it properly and open up to him about how he was feeling. Though, that wasn’t the only thing he was currently looking for the right moment for. _God hates me._ He hated God back. Antonio couldn’t tell if this was one of those bullshit ‘tests’ he had been lectured on as a kid—a test of faith, of strength—but it was like the pressure was starting to build. Everything was happening at once. It was slowly weighing him down.

A break. He needed a break, a little bit of calm, a _quiet, uneventful day._

Today was not going to be that day.

Antonio turned a corner on the high street as he was slowly making his way to where he was due to meet Alfred in half an hour—just a café for a friendly chat. But as he turned that corner, however, someone fell into view that he hadn’t exactly expected to see: one Francis Bonnefoi. If Antonio had had his phone out still, he would have pretended to be busy, to not have noticed him, but it was too late for that. Francis had seen him too. He was smiling. Antonio felt obliged to smile back.

“Bonjour, Antoine,” the blonde greeted him from where he had been standing idly on the pavement. He seemed to have been reading papers for work, but he slipped them away into his case. _Just for me_. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I know, things have been… a bit crazy as of late. But I’m good, thank you,” he replied, keeping things polite. “And you? How are you?”

“All good here,” Francis concurred. “And I know what you mean. Work is hectic, and I’m sure for you, between the ambulance and everything Gilbert is trying to handle—” _Of course he had to bring up the case. God, give me a fucking break, already!_ “—life is a little chaotic at the moment, no?”

Antonio nodded all the same and gave a meek smile. ‘Chaotic’ was one way of putting it, but it wasn’t the time for this sort of discussion. He just wanted to be on his way, he just wanted to sit down and have a coffee and not have to think about this sort of stuff… But it didn’t stop him from saying: “I think he’s suffering more than I am. It’s bringing him down. I’m getting a bit worried about him, in all honesty, but there’s not exactly anything I can do…”

That seemed to bewilder Francis, however, which was not the reaction he had expected (read: _wanted_ ). “Your relationship is… okay?”

“It’s fine,” he said rather quickly. _Just shoot me, please_. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh— Not for any malicious reason. It’s just, you say there is nothing you can do, but if you are there for him—if you can support him—then you are already doing plenty,” Francis explained to him. It… sort of made sense, and Antonio supposed that was what he had already been doing…

But what if that wasn’t enough? What if his unconditional support was no longer helping? Was that why Gilbert had snapped at him, because Antonio wasn’t… enough, anymore? Was that what Francis was suggesting? That Antonio was no good for Gilbert? No. No, that was nonsense. He wouldn’t accept that, he wouldn’t even let himself entertain the idea. Antonio _was_ enough. He had been enough for the past few years, and a homicide case was not going to get in between them like that. It wasn’t going to defeat Gilbert, and it certainly would not defeat Antonio.

Maybe what Francis had said just then, in that case, was a good thing. Antonio supporting Gilbert was a good thing—and it was all he needed to do. What had Francis said? ‘ _You are already doing plenty'._ Right. Right, so, Antonio _was_ enough. Yes. That was what Francis had been trying to say. _Calm down_. Everything was fine… _Now to convince Gilbert of the same thing, and to make him realise that he isn’t the only one this case is starting to stress out…_

“Tell me if I am wrong, but… this conversation, between you and me… It’s not as easy as conversations used to be,” Francis remarked. Antonio looked to him and became riddled with guilt, before slowly nodding in agreement. And the other gave a soft, calm sigh. “I know I made things awkward between us, and for that I’m sorry. But I don’t want this animosity. The three of us, we used to get on so well, we used to have fun together…”

Now it was Antonio’s turn to sigh. “I know we did,” he conceded. A sad smile fell onto his face and his gaze began to fall. “Sometimes I miss it—the going out, the drinking, the gossiping, the craziness… Do you remember that one time, Gilbert started drinking vodka and within five minutes, he had started a whole bar sing-along to ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’? And somehow, he wasn’t immediately kicked out?”

“Oh, I definitely remember that,” Francis chuckled, shaking his head. “We had to hold him back so he wouldn’t climb up on the bar!”

“And then he nearly started a fight with the guys next to us!” Antonio added. He was trying not to laugh for himself, but it was hard not to.

Gilbert had been truly off his face that evening, and when he had gone to challenge the men who had been drinking at the next table over, Francis had had to remind Gilbert that starting a bar fight was in fact a terrible idea, and that he would not be there to defend him in court. Gilbert had instead fought with Francis. ‘ _You’re meant to be my bestie, it’s your_ job _to defend me!_ ’. The argument had continued into the back of the taxi, and Antonio had only finally calmed Gilbert down by getting him into bed and safely wrapped in blankets so that no one—especially the detective himself—did not get hurt.

He had been very cuddly that night. He had also burst into tears at about four in the morning, apologising frantically, before passing out again. Antonio smiled at that, just as he had smiled back then, and it only cemented that longstanding thought in his head: _I am in love with an idiot, and I always will be_.

It took a conversation with Francis—a once-friend that he had neglected for the past year or so—for him to realise that fact once again.

“You know,” Francis proceeded to say once they both calmed again, “I can accept that we may not be able to return to such strengths—not right away. There is some work that needs to be done, on my part especially, to get that old friendship back, and—”

“No, no—it’s not just on you, it’s my fault as well,” Antonio interrupted, so that Francis was not solely blaming himself.

“Then between the both of us, there is work to do,” Francis amended with a soft smile, as though reminiscing of such times in the past when the three of them had been thick as thieves, peas in a pod, the three musketeers. “But maybe… we should not put it off any longer. If we could start to mend it and start to bond again, I think that would be a wonderful thing—if you want to, that is.”

Antonio smiled back at him. “I do,” he said. “I think we should do it, too. We could… We could meet for a drink this week, if you like? Sit down, catch up, that sort of thing… I mean, the evenings are a bit hard at the minute, I have a lot of later shifts currently, but—”

“We can do it in the afternoon? Meet up for a coffee, or have lunch? I am free this Friday, if that’s any good for you,” the blonde suggested.

“Yeah, Friday would be good,” Antonio nodded after quickly thinking about what his schedule was (Friday was indeed a late shift; he’d be working through the night up until the sun began to rise over the city). And in his present thrill—while he felt this unusual wave of excitement and hope—he hurriedly added: “I actually have something I think I need some help with, and I’d love to get an opinion, if you don’t mind. You always have been good at giving advice, and I could really do with it…”

“Of course! You can tell me all about it on Friday. Whatever it is, I promise you will have my undying attention,” Francis reassured him. “It would be a pleasure.”

“Then I look forward to it. I… I’ll text you this evening to decide where we’re going.”

Antonio was resolute. He _would_ text Francis, because he had just promised to, and he was not going to go against those words. He would force himself to make an effort, to change his energy, to meet with Francis. It needed to be done.

“I would, uh…” Antonio paused and reset, trying again. Conversation had just become a little harder again. It was a work in progress. He would get there. “I’d stay now and chat but you seemed busy before I showed up, and I have somewhere to be as well, so… B-But Friday, we can talk properly. I promise!”

“Then I look forward to it,” Francis replied, “and I look forward to seeing more of you, again.”

As they parted and bid each other a good day, Antonio continued to walk along the street with those words in his mind. ‘ _I look forward to seeing more of you_ ’ (a weird way to word it). Yet, it wasn’t something he had thought he would admit so readily and especially after such a brief conversation, but Antonio was looking forward to it as well. He was looking forward to it a lot.

* * *

**_13:14pm._ **

Fiorella had decided to make the most of being out of the hospital and of Lovino’s good mood. He had told her just as he was opening up shop that she was free to go out into town and wander around if she wanted—just for an hour or so, though, bearing in mind she was still healing. Fiorella had thanked him all the same and had not hesitated. She’d been in a hospital bed for three months—a sentence only prolonged because of a severe hospital-acquired infection in her respiratory system.

She’d only gone in because of an unfortunate polymyositis flare-up. She had had it since she was young—a rare chronic thing—but it had taken a sudden turn again. Lovino had taken her to hospital himself. The doctors had given her some stronger medication so she could manage her symptoms, and at the same time, they had unwittingly given her a bad infection that had seen her at one point needing respiratory aid and one hell of a drip. 

But she was alive. That was what mattered to her.

Lovino had been sure to provide her with a walking stick (a rather pretty thing, decorated with soft colours and floral designs, apparently to suit her personality) for when she did go out, like she had now, just in case her muscles started to give her grief. For that, she was grateful. And it was why she wanted to buy him something—a unique gift, just to show her appreciation of everything he had done for her. What she would get, she didn’t yet know. But she would find something.

Probably food.

Food always went down very well. Or wine. Also a firm favourite.

She would find somewhere, in that case, that was maybe a little more artisanal, with fancier food and something a little different. Lovino was the opposite to Fee’s sweet tooth, so it would have to be savoury—something he could cook with. Man, she had forgotten how hard this sort of thing was…

Fiorella got so far, however, when she felt a need to stop. It wasn’t always easy to just walk and walk and walk. She had her limits, and the doctor had warned her to take it easy. Her muscles, she could live with, but she also had to watch her lungs. Because of that, she found somewhere to sit down—a bench on the side of the pavement, where she could rest for five to ten minutes before continuing. Lovino had said she could be out for an hour before needing to return so he could check on her. Fiorella would extend that to two. She knew he wouldn’t mind if she gave him a phone call instead.

While she sat down and did a little bit of people-watching, someone sat down on the other end of the bench next to her. She didn’t think much of it at first—why would she?—but then the stranger decided to make conversation. Fiorella would not object—it felt nice to be back in normal society again.

“It is a pleasant day, don’t you think?” the stranger had said.

“It is,” she agreed in turn. “Not too warm, but not too cold. You can tell we are in Spring, and the flowers are starting to grow and bloom… It’s very pretty.”

The stranger—a tall man who smiled softly at the world, in the same pensive way she did—nodded in agreement with her. “Spring is objectively pretty,” he remarked. “After a cold and bleak winter, it is Spring’s job to provide us with warmth and colour.”

“I’ve never thought about it that way,” the Italian mused, intrigued. “Do you not like Winter, then?”

“Not that much,” the man confessed. “Mostly because the weather is inconvenient. It causes problems, and it isn’t particularly wonderful for business either.”

“Oh?”

“I won’t bore you with the details.”

A silence fell between them. Fiorella wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it, but then the man gave a soft sigh and looked towards her. His smile had fallen slightly into a more neutral expression, but there was something in his eyes—she couldn’t tell if it was kindness, understanding or sadness. Either way, the silence did not last.

“I have something for your brother,” the man said.

Fiorella felt simultaneously startled and curious. “You know my brother…?”

“Lovino,” he nodded. “I will not say we are close friends, but I have been meaning to give him something and I was hoping you could… do it for me.” The man set a canvas bag on his lap and took out a heavy leather book (about myths and legends, according to the title). Fiorella thought it was an odd thing to give Lovino (he wasn’t big on reading) but then he opened it and took out an envelope from between the pages. That made… a _little_ more sense, she supposed. “I would have gone myself this afternoon anyway. But I saw you by chance and thought… it would save a lot of trouble. For both him and for me.”

Taking the envelope when it was held out to her, Fiorella felt its weight (light, like it was just a letter, a piece of paper…) and then let it sit in her grip. “What is it?” she asked him. 

“It’s just something I need him to read. And it is for his eyes only,” the man made quite clear. _It’s not like I was planning to read it or anything!..._ "I take it you can do that for me?"

"Of course, that's fine," she assured him all the same. "Who should I say it is from?"

"Ah— Ivan," he replied. He extended a hand with an apologetic look, as though he had forgotten his manners (she didn't mind), which Fiorella took more than happily and shook. "I am glad to see you are well. Your brother was worried, but it is reassuring that you are back on your feet."

"Well, thank you," she smiled. "Vee has always been a worrier. He'd do anything for me, which is nice in theory, but I worry about that, too. He's told me enough times: he'd even sell his soul to the Devil if he could!"

At that, Ivan nodded. "I know." The two words drifted off, presumably with his thoughts. But he snapped back to it fast and continued: "I need to go now, there is a lot I still have to do today… But thank you for taking the letter for me—it is one less thing to worry about. I wish you both well," he bid as he stood up again, book in the bag and the bag strapped over his shoulder. "I hope you have a good day, _signora._ ”

“And you, too,” Fiorella responded. “I will make sure this gets to my brother safely.”

Ivan nodded a final time as a sort of thank you, before he went on his way. Fiorella thought him a curious and rather odd individual, but she liked his smile, and whatever was written on the note she needed to give to Lovino, it was just nice to know that Ivan was another person who seemed to have been keeping an eye on him while she had been in hospital. The Lord knew you had to have patience with him. It was reassuring, at least, that Lovino had not been completely alone during her hospitalisation… 

In the end, she decided five more minutes on the bench would not hurt. Then she would continue her present-hunting with double the enthusiasm.

* * *

**_13:35pm._ **

There was a quiet wave in business and Lovino predicted that it would last another half an hour or so at the very minimum. That meant he could breathe a little easier and give his own caffeine levels a boost with a cheeky cappuccino in between a little table-running and serving. The employee he had recently hired was also on break which meant he also got a little peace and quiet, which meant in turn that he was not obliged to make conversation with anyone. 

Social interactions were just… _hard_. Such a thought made him wonder why he had ever gone into hospitality, _Gesù_ _._

Well, some days it was worth it.

Just as he was finishing up his drink, the door opened and he was greeted by a face that had grown significantly more familiar as of late (not that he was, you know, _complaining_ , or anything…). Alfred walked in with a friend in tow (it occurred to him then that Lovino did not know _that_ much about Alfred’s life, who his friends were, that sort of thing—and Alfred knew a fair bit about him by now. Maybe he would have to fix that. It felt a bit… wrong) and with a massive smile on his face. Lovino merely nodded to greet him in turn, setting his cappuccino aside.

“Hiya, Lovi!”

The Italian had to try hard to not groan in disdain. “Hi, Alfred,” he said in spite of the other’s… indiscretion… before also vaguely greeting the other brunette; “and hello to your friend as well.”

“I figured it was about time I brought him round, hope you don’t mind,” the American said. _This is a fucking café, as if I would ‘mind’. If he’d broken into my house, it would be a different matter. What a… weirdo._ Alfred turned to his friend ( _fuck me, another big smiler, what is it with these guys?_ ) and began the simple introductions: “Antonio, meet Lovino. Lovino, meet Antonio—new friend, best friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” Antonio said. Lovino was fifty percent sure he saw the other role his eyes at the way they were introduced ( _I feel that_ ) but he chose not to acknowledge it in any way. He was more disappointed that this ‘Antonio’ was not, as he had prematurely hoped, Italian as well. “You are the one who makes the tiramisù?”

 _Fucking Jesus Christ_ — Lovino hummed civily. “That’s me,” he confirmed, before his eyes went back to Alfred, adding on: “I’m glad to know that’s all I’m famous for.”

“Hey, it’s a damned good tiramisu,” Alfred defended, brows raised as he stared indignantly at the barista. 

“Yeah? What’s wrong with my coffee, then?” Lovino replied, his arms crossing over his chest as though to challenge the blonde. It wasn’t as if the other wasn’t a regular. _'_ _An americano for the americano!'_. It was practically a ritual for them by now.

All the while, Alfred had become a little flustered. “N-Nothing,” he insisted, “I love your coffee too!” He gave a laugh—one that seemed a bit nervous. Lovino glanced at Antonio, who seemed amused by the exchange and Lovino shook his head. The other agreed with a nod. “I just think your tiramisu is _extra_ special, that’s all!”

Antonio decided to step in at that point, perhaps for the best. “I’m going to find a seat,” he said to Alfred, clapping down lightly on the other’s shoulder. He looked at Lovino and smiled. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but… _Vorrei un cappuccino, con zucchero..._?”

_Holy shit, a man of culture._

“Since when do you speak Italian…?” Alfred asked his friend before Lovino even had a chance to.

The other merely grinned. “ _Desde hace diez minutos."_

"Bullshit."

“Believe what you want, Al. Meanwhile, _te espero allí,_ ” he said, gesturing to an empty table back towards the front windows, before he said to the Italian: “Pleasure to meet you, Lovino.” Then he went back to Alfred again and said a final: “ _Yo apruebo a tu querido ‘nuevo amigo’. Suerte, 'mano_.” And with that, the brunette walked off and took a seat.

Alfred and Lovino fell quiet for all of four seconds.

“I honestly didn’t think he could speak any Italian,” the blonde confessed as he leaned on the counter. “Goes to show how much I know, huh?”

Lovino wanted to reassure him that all Antonio had done was order a drink, it had hardly been a speech. And it really was something that you could find out within ten seconds of being on the internet, it was far from advanced language. Though, he did feel it was wise to tell Alfred something, too…

“I bet you didn’t know I can speak some Spanish either, huh?”

Alfred visibly paled. Lovino did his best to hold back a sudden barked laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi: still without internet, but i had another sudden gush of writing inspo and wanted to keep publishing. so here ya go, have some ~filler~ (or is it? >w>) and i will reply to any comments when i get home and have stable WiFi again. i'm hoping this coming Saturday i'll be able to fly, but it all depends on me getting a covid test in Spain which is f u n . n o t .


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